


The Sleeping Prince

by CalypsotheQueen



Category: Maleficent (Disney Movies), Sleeping Beauty (1959), Sleeping Beauty (Fairy Tale), The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fluff, Helen and pat are siblings, Helen is asexual, Helen is kinda a villian, Multi, Patroclus is aurora, Some violence?, a few OCs - Freeform, achilles is maleficent, actually kinda a lot of violence, mostly cute things, some action?, some humor?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 56,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23233654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalypsotheQueen/pseuds/CalypsotheQueen
Summary: Before the sun sets on his twentieth birthday, the prince will prick his finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and fall into a sleep like death...This curse looms over Patroclus' head, and Achilles is the one who put it there. They can't run from Fate and they cannot escape destiny for forever. Achilles is a villain, and Patroclus is a damsel, and true love is perhaps the most powerful and mysterious thing in the world.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Briseis & Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Diomedes/Odysseus/Penelope (Song of Achilles), Helen of Troy/Paris (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 85
Kudos: 213





	1. In Which Exposition is Given and The Twins are Introduced

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom made of paupers' cottages, farmers' fields, rat-infested streets, noblemen's mansions, and a king's castle. Upon the throne sat Menoetius, an infamous man who ruled with unforgiving justice and unyielding selfishness. Not in his 30-year-long reign had he ever even offered even a mat for messengers to rest their knees on while they ranted, despite having wealth enough to provide one. His golden castle was a dreary place, one of horror and violence. The powerless citizens feared him, the thriving tyrant fed and clothed by their taxes squashed any implication of resistance to his crown. Yet, continually, the Fates favored him. 

In contrast, the people favored the twins Helen and Patroclus, his children. The pair of them were gentle, beautiful, and kind with smiles like purest moonshine. Helen, from a young age, possessed angelic beauty, the strength of mind and physique, and a cunningness known only to her. Like his sister, Patroclus' face shimmered with heavenly beauty, but his heart overflowed with kindness, and his hands were known to heal small wounds with just a touch. These qualities were gifts from fairies given to them at birth. 

Their mother, called stupid by beggars and dumb by doctors, had invited three fairies to her bed to bless her children as a show of goodwill. The sparkling, colorful, palm-sized, winged creatures hovered over Her Majesty, Philomela, pregnant with soon-to-be Patroclus and Helen. They had already cast their wonderful spells and the Queen was smiling, a distant look in her eyes. Now, their small mouths proposed a deal with Philomela, which was this: in exchange for their gifts, make a public decree stating any who cross the River Scamander would be executed. This river was on the edge of a farmer's pumpkin field, the edge of the kingdom. Beyond the River Scamander, was the thick, dark forest of fairies, goblins, nymphs, trolls, centaurs, and magic users. The three fairies knew that the cruelty and growing power of humans could be the extinction of their kind if they dared to cross the river. The Queen, nodded along with the sound of their chattering voices, though her mind wasn't open to comprehension. 

King Menoetius entered the Queen's bedroom initially to check on the wellness of his very pregnant wife, however, his mind was blinded with fury when he saw the fairies floating in the air. He raged at them launching a vase in their direction, and they scattered like rats, crowding at the window before unlocking the hatch and fleeing back to their homeland. He shouted after them and banged his fists on the window's seal.

The King then whipped around to face the velvet bed. 

"Did those bastards hurt you?" Menoetius demanded of his wife, she mumbled an indistinct response. The Queen's face suddenly contorted into pain and her lips shifted into a cry.

"Philomela!" He screamed and rushed to her side. Castle servants rushed into the room, as Philomela went into labor. Only Patroclus and Helen's characters were affected by magic. Yet, the King was convinced that the fairies had magicked Philomela's pregnancy because eight hours later, after the twins had left her body, Philomela died. Her soul was dragged to the Underworld before she could even utter the children's names, that responsibility was left to the King. Simple maids cleaned and nursed the pair. A few days later, there was a quiet funeral held near the ocean, which Philomela was known for loving. Helen and Patroclus, wrapped in cloth, listened with their souls that day as Philomela's corpse went up in flames. 

The fairies' presence before Philomela's death was coincidental, but Menoetius believed it to be a declaration of war. However, the King had not gained his throne by blindly choosing battles. The wholly magical world beyond the River Scamander was unknown to even him, so in the years to come, he began to send scouts, and gather his iron and his men. All in preparation for avenging his dead wife, yes, but also in hopes of conquering the land to boost his wealth and mend his wounded pride.

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Helen and Patroclus loved each other more than anything on the Earth. Citizens joked the children seemed to be attached at the hip and communicated in secret tongue comprised entirely of touches and glances. Their sweetness and intimate nature engrossed everyone around them, that even the hills and mountains watched, enchanted with the pair as they grew up. Poets would recite for generations to come of how the princess and prince would gracefully run, forge flower crowns, skip rocks, and heal injured birds. Together, they blissfully dreamed of the worlds that they would inherit. They were gods and the world was for the taking. 

"Hmm," Patroclus, eight years old, hummed a soft tune. He laid on his back in the grass, underneath a cherry tree flourishing with reddened fruit. Unbeknownst to him, the tree underneath which he sat was the exact one his deceased mother favorited. Kisses of sunlight crept through the branches onto his dark cheeks, the color of purest chocolate. "The flowers," He finally answered Helen's question, the top of her black hair touched his, her small, curved body lying parallel to Patroclus'. 

Helen laughed, her voice bright and breathy. "You can't have all the flowers, Patroclus, that's hardly fair."

Currently, the children were dividing up the entire world, as suggested originally by Helen. It was theirs to share anyway, they had never doubted that. They were royalty and too young to learn of pain or loss. The princess and prince did not miss their mother, for they did not know her, nor their father, who always seemed to be too busy to parent them. They were each other's, the world was theirs, they had and could have anything and everything they ever wanted. 

Patroclus only smiled, it was like moonshine, and closed his eyes. 

"Fine, then, I claim the sky," Helen proclaimed grandly, she lifted both her hands up to it, "and every sunset, sunrise, and nightfall in it." 

"As long as I get the stars."

"The oceans are mine, so I can see the reflection of your stars in my waters." 

"You can claim the moon, I get the birds and their wings." 

"Deal. Though I want the lions, I've never seen one before."

"Either have I," Patroclus reminded his twin, they had only heard of them in their royal studies. "May I pet one of your lions?" 

"Only if you want to get-" Helen flipped over on her stomach and jabbed her fingers into Patroclus' stomach, "-eaten!" 

Patroclus squealed with delight as Helen, on all fours, ran her thin fingers up and down the sides of his torso. Patroclus fervently protested as his skin began to jump and spaz against her touch. He giggled and giggled until tears formed in his eyes, his lungs heaved with heavy breaths, and he scolded himself for being so ticklish. 

"Stop! Stop-" He whined, however, Helen did not relent, she had pinned her squirming brother down and was enjoying his strangled laughter. "Helen! Helen!" He cried, panting through the drunken smile on his face. 

Helen finally did. She was sitting on his stomach, palms pressed unto the grass underneath his armpits, Helen's dark eyes sparkling with satisfaction. 

"You can pet any lion you want," Helen promised, "I'll tickle them to death if they so much as lick their lips around you." 

Patroclus easily smiled, as he often did. Patroclus wouldn't be Patroclus without that brilliant smile. "Have mercy, princess," Patroclus breathed, looking up at her dazzling gaze, her nose close to his.

"I only speak the truth, my prince," Helen assured him and removed herself from his personal space, now standing, her elegant skirts flowing around her ankles. She stuck out her hand, soft and petite, and her brother grasped it gratefully. Though he was well-fed and heavy, Helen pulled him up with excellent ease, her strength unimaginable for other children her age. 

"Oh, but those poor lions," Patroclus pleaded, now on his feet, a pout forming on his lips. 

A voice, loud and demanding, rose from beyond the hill. The children's instructor. The twins had escaped him earlier that morning and fled into the King's garden to climb the trees. Patroclus' shrieks had alerted even the old man's ears to their whereabouts. The aged professor had long since run out of patience for the prince and princess, for it was the fifth time this week the pair had escaped him. 

Helen, still holding Patroclus' hand, sprinted down the hill, dragging her brother behind him. Their arms flew randomly, and their legs and their hearts burned with wild freedom. 

"It will be poor us if we wait a moment longer!" Helen cried, determined to escape learning how to spell for the rest of her life. She was content with running, running endlessly and forever with Patroclus.


	2. In Which Deidameia Arrives

Deidameia was soon to be the queen of a faraway and wealthy kingdom, in fact, today was her wedding, yet she wasn't excited at all. Her arranged fiancé was King Menoetius, known throughout the lands for being cruel and arrogant. She was devastated after her father gave news of his arrangement for her to marry the 8-year-long widower. The only reason she didn't slit her throat that night was that Menoetius was stupidly rich. Today, however, Deidameia regretted her submission to her father's will. Now, she would rather be performing a dance for a sexy young noble, than having her wedding corset laced up by this amateur. 

"Tighter!" She hissed, the servant obeyed and drew the strings back further. "Tighter!" The bride repeated. The entire kingdom was going to be present at her wedding, she might as well make a nice first impression. "That's good," Deidameia growled, even though she felt her stomach might make her spine pop out of place, her breath could barely enter her lungs, and her ribs might crack underneath the pressure. The pain became unimportant as the bride delighted in the mirror's portrayal of her appearance, small waist with well-rounded breasts. 

"Bring my adornments and the dress!" Deidameia ordered, she was accustomed to having her demands met quickly, as they were at her old home. There were five well-trained maids assigned to assist the bride as she readied, but even with the collective help, Deidameia was far from appreciative. She was irritable and impatient, though the wedding would take place three full hours later. 

Finally, Deidameia was ready. The dress was nothing less than exquisite, crafted from the finest materials gold could buy. Handwoven lace clung to her neck in detailed white designs that trailed down her waist and to the sides of her skirts. The skirts were puffy, like a cloud flowing around her legs and in a very long trail behind her. Clean pearls were sewn into the folds of the silk that decorated her arms, neck, and chest. A three-pointed crystal crown rested on top of her golden hair, which was braided down her left side. White blossoms were tucked into the trails of her braid. Deidameia, sitting in front of a mirror, adjusted her crown so that it caught the sunlight and framed her face in the most appealing way possible. 

"Your dress is so pretty," A voice stated boldly. Deidameia curiously turned her head towards the noise, holding her crown up with one hand. In the doorway of the changing room stood an enchanting young girl who wore a white dress enriched with golden designs. A twinkling golden crown sat on her dark hair which was drawn back into a pair of buns. 

"Thank you," Deidameia said, and folded her hands neatly into her lap. "Though, I much rather wear your dress because of the gold touches," The bride muttered honestly, "gold is my favorite." 

The child approached the bride's comfortable seat to inspect Deidameia's outfit further. None of the maids, busying themselves with clean up, stopped her. The girl brushed her small hand against the fluffy skirts of the wedding dress. Deidameia found herself gaping like a fish at the child's beauty, now at close proximity. Next to her, Deidameia's pretty features were almost worthless. She was an angel. Pale skin, dark eyes, fine nose, long lashes...

The face that could launch a thousand ships. 

This was Helen. 

"You are pretty too," Helen complimented, lifting her hand to stroke her chin. "Are you going to be our new mommy?" 

This child's word, "mommy," shook Deidameia out of her thoughts. 

"I know you're going to be my father's wife, but can we call you mommy?" Helen asked. "If we can't, then I suspect you'll be much happier wearing dresses and crowns than playing with us." 

"I, um, I am happy wearing dresses and crowns," Deidameia croaked, taken aback by the little one's intellectual theory. Wasn't she only eight? She had heard of this child and her brother quite a few times as her marriage was arranged and her journey here commenced. All of the times consisted of high praises of beauty, sweetness, and cunning, none of which Deidameia believed. She had only thought the sailors and nobles were trying to comfort her, in a strange backward way. If the men knew the first thing about Deidameia, they would not ease her stress with this talk. Unlike nearly every other woman alive, Deidameia's future role as a mother choked and disabled instead of blessed her. 

"Me too," The princess admitted. "But it is not all I do, nor all I want to do. My name is Helen." That was a grand way to introduce oneself. 

"I'm Deidameia." After a pause, "What do you do then, hm?" Deidameia asked, as sweetly as she could manage. This was her first interaction with her daughter, Deidameia valued first impressions greatly. Or, rather, Helen would be her stepdaughter within the hour. 

"I run, skip rocks, sing, collect feathers, avoid schooling..." Helen listed off, tugging at her earlobe absentmindedly, "and rule the world." 

The bride chuckled at this, her laughter was high pitched and unnatural. Helen frowned, it sounded as if she had practiced it in front of a mirror many times. Not at all similar to the uncontrollable boyish laughter of Patroclus which the princess loved so much. 

"I wouldn't mind ruling the world with you," Deidameia mused. 

"Well, Patroclus owns half of the world and I the other half..." Helen said quickly, then she shrugged her shoulders, "but perhaps you can have the moon. I didn't want it anyway."

"Oh," What a strange thing to say... 

"On second thought, the sun might fit you better, to go along with your hair," Helen mumbled, somewhat reluctantly. Deidameia could tell the young princess was hooked on the idea of owning the untamable sun. 

"I don't see many people with blonde hair," Helen raised an eyebrow like she suspected the bride of falsely acquiring her hair color. 

"I come from a kingdom very far away," As Deidameia uttered the vague explanation, a ping of homesickness struck her heart. 

"Princess Deidameia," Deidameia glanced up and saw a maid, bone-skinny and tall, had appeared and was waiting expectantly at the doorway, "It is time." She called.

Deidameia rose with as much grace as she could muster and moved around Helen with great difficulty for the wedding dress weighed her down immensely. The young girl stumbled away from the large abundance of skirts attached to the bride's hips. Deidameia surged forward and her chair tumbled downwards after her, dragged forward by the weight of her white train. 

The bride glanced back at the disarray she had caused and groaned in agony, "Can three of you be please be useful-?" 

Helen, despite her fragile-looking limbs, easily lifted the bride's expensive train with one tiny hand. Deidameia felt the weight removed from her shoulders and looked back to see the source. Her eyes widened with fear and surprise as Helen pulled the train to the side with her right hand and with her left hand put the chair back on its legs. A train she called on three servants to carry. 

"I-I...thank you, Helen, dear," Her voice quavered, exposing the fear she felt buzzing in her stomach. Deidameia had ever used the word "dear" before. Deidameia had never met a child with Helen's...terrifying characteristics. The sailors had spoken no falsehoods about this princess. This was the girl Deidameia would be spending the rest of her living days with... 

The maid at the doorway, unphased by Helen's show of strength, waited completely still for the bride. 

"Right, right, wedding," Deidameia muttered, she walked forward heavily, tugging the train behind her. "I have to go and marry your father now, Helen, if you'll excuse me-"

"No need," Helen huffed, trotting towards the door with her arms swinging, "I'm the flower girl." 

✧ ✧ ✧

The wedding was a blur. Evening fell quickly and Deidameia barely remembered the details of the rush of food, festivities, singing, dancing, laughing, and kissing. She had seen so many faces, tasted so many flavors, and heard so many new sounds. Her brain was hardly keeping up with the data it was supposed to be processing and storing. It wasn't exactly that strange absence of time during especially fun entertainment, but the clock was certainly malfunctioning. 

The time came for Deidameia to bed King Menoetius. Her abdomen ached and her bones rattled with anticipation. Deidameia knew she would recall this twilight for too long and for too often. 

"I'm going to do what I've wanted to do ever since I first saw you, princess," King Menoetius whispered. He was on top of her, his breath warm against her lips, his chest touching hers. The bed trapped her between the sheets and the body of the King.

"It's Queen now," Deidameia reminded him, her eyes searching his scrappy face. His eyes burned with lust. 

"That it is..."

✧ ✧ ✧

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aye boiis, welcome to my first post on archiveofourown! hope yall like-yyy
> 
> give kudos and comment if you would like <3
> 
> thanks!
> 
> note: i may not upload very frequently, but i do have the story in my head. so i just have to dig it out :D


	3. In Which the Cherry Tree Gets Another Friend

Deidameia awoke to soft sunlight pouring in through a window. Her eyelids fluttered open and she gasped quietly. The Queen was alone in her chambers, the warm sheets tangled around her naked limbs. She sat up and rubbed her eyes clean of puffy sleep. She stroked her hair, which was still the same bird's nest from last night...last night. 

Deidameia was not a virgin when she married King Menoetius, but she had felt unsure and unstable like one last night. His people said their king was a vicious, unjust, evil spawn of selfishness. Yet, with Deidameia he was gentle. Loving, even. In fact, she wished he was here now to hold her. This strange change of alleged character caught Deidameia completely off guard. 

The awoken Queen was left with one predominant lingering thought: Perhaps, she might find happiness here after all. 

✧ ✧ ✧

Breakfast was served, and Menoetius was still nowhere to be seen. This morning, her maidservants had dressed Deidameia in a new gown, expensive and tight-fitting, and a thin layer of cosmetics covered her face. The Queen ate carefully, as to not spill soup on her dress. She was alone in the dining room, sitting in a fluffy seat adjacent to a long, oak table currently filled with meats, loaves of bread, and exotic fruit foreign to Deidameia. The flavors Deidameia was tasting with a tiny assortment of silverware, including spoons and forks, were still very new. Princess though she used to be, the silverware and unspoken table manners still confused her. She was the Queen now, how was that supposed to change her eating style? She had learned many things growing up, but no one had educated her on this...

While Deidameia's attention was absorbed by the meal on the table, the princess and the prince then entered the room. Helen's hair was down today and she was dressed in a pink, loose-fitting dress. Patroclus skipped in behind her, he was dressed in a princely white and blue outfit. They were laughing, Helen snorted and Patroclus panted breathlessly at whatever joke they had shared. Patroclus stumbled unto his seat, directly across from the Queen, his upper body was barely visible over the mound of food in front of Deidameia. Helen took her chair next to her twin. The princess' fingers extended to grasp a fork and stab a hunk of cheese with it, which was quickly shoved into her mouth. Patroclus leaned over and whispered something to Helen, who choked on her cheese and laughter. Both of her stepchildren completely disregarded Deidameia's presence at the table. 

Deidameia hardly minded. Their ignorance gave the Queen time to observe them. Patroclus, though a young boy, was attractive, heart-stoppingly so, but not in the same way Helen was beautiful. Actually, Deidameia pondered to herself, they looked nothing alike. Where Helen's pale skin reflected the sun's white rays, Patroclus' dark skin absorbed it, his cheeks flushed with pink. Where Helen's eyes were fearless, dark, and cold enough to stop a grown man's blood flow, Patroclus' eyes were kind. That shimmering honey-brown color that made babies stare and elderly women remember their young years and happily simper. Helen's hair flowed down her back in straight murky waves and Patroclus' was held at his scalp in tightly coiled curls. She took up space, moving confidently with purpose, whereas the prince's body moved through the air like a kite in the breeze, boundless and free. 

At first glance, one would guess they weren't related at all. Upon closer inspection, the curve of their noses, the rise of their cheekbones, and the tilt of their brows hinted at their siblinghood. Even their father's thick eyelashes were present on both children's faces. Deidameia, however, was convinced something supernatural had affected the god-like appearances of these youths. 

"Helen says that you're from far away," Patroclus' voice reached Deidameia's ears with gentle precision. This was not an accusation, but a tender shove into the conversation. Surprisingly, he wanted to include Deidameia in their discussion. Helen's gaze darted desperately to Patroclus, but he paid her no mind. 

"I am, yes," Deidameia admitted, brushing her lip with the provided cloth. 

"It must be very weird coming here, then," Patroclus empathized genuinely with his stepmother, his eyes glimmered dangerously with emotion. Helen rolled her eyes as if she heard this too often. 

"New, but not frightening," Deidameia lied. I must not cause him to cry, Deidameia reasoned to herself, that would taint my reputation greatly. "I had quite the welcome, after all." 

Patroclus smiled at this, and Deidameia immediately imagined a merchant would become very wealthy if he managed to bottle up and sell that incredible, wonderful smile. 

"You haven't had mine yet," Patroclus declared, "I'm Patroclus, welcome to our little world across the sea." Helen raised an eyebrow at him. 

"Why, thank you, Patroclus," Deidameia grinned, the red paint on her lips spread wide across her face. Patroclus beamed. "I'm Deidameia, your stepmother, but you already know that..." She muttered rather dumbly.

"Can we show her our special place, Helen?" Patroclus asked excitedly, failing to maintain a whisper. Deidameia cocked her head in confusion. 

Helen hissed something inaudible back.

"Please?" Patroclus sang, no longer attempting a quiet voice. "Please? Please? Please?" His boyish whine echoed throughout the dining hall. 

"Alright, alright," Helen relented, her cold gaze warmed by Patroclus' singing. The prince's face lit up and he jumped off his seat.

"After breakfast, Pat, sit back down," Helen commanded fiercely. He obeyed, then began to scarf down fruit and bread with unimaginable speed. 

Helen slowly ate with dignity and watched Deidameia intensely from across the table. Deidameia felt her neck warm-up with embarrassment, and the spoon and fork felt uncomfortable in her grasp underneath the stare of Helen. Like a beetle under a magnifying glass. 

Finally, the food on the table was cleaned up by the hands of servants and Helen gave her permission for Patroclus to leave. Upon her word, he rushed to Deidameia's side and reached for his stepmother's hand. 

"Follow me!" He cried gleefully. The Queen allowed herself to be dragged off the chair and out the doors by the boy. Helen quietly trailed behind the pair as Deidameia hoisted up her skirts to keep up with Patroclus' fast pace. 

"Where are you taking me?" Deidameia frantically questioned as the prince led her down a spiral stone staircase. 

"You'll see," Patroclus promised sweetly over his shoulder. 

He pushed through a heavy wooden door, bordered with iron. The double-doors groaned and revealed a cobblestone path, winding through a variety of flowers and bush. Outside the sun was rising, streams of gold touched every corner of the garden, a beautiful tawny filter rested over everything. The flowers were just buds, miniature spots of color on the mane of stems and leaves. It was early spring, after all, the wedding season. Bushes were well kept and trimmed to perfection, in the shape of cubes or spheres, planted on the edge of the twisting stone paths. 

Patroclus' shoes patted the down the path swiftly, and Deidameia ran to keep up. A middle-aged male gardener, shears in hand, glanced over at the royals and waved a gloved hand as they passed. Helen called out a quick greeting to her old friend and rushed after her family members. 

Before Deidameia could plead with the boy to slow down, Patroclus left the cobblestone road and cut through the bush. The Queen tripped after him, her gown caught and tore on a stray branch. Patroclus clutched her hand relentlessly and pulled her up a lush hill. Deidameia breathed heavily, her corset pressed strongly against her lungs, but she managed to conquer the incline and finish the race at the top of the hill. 

A cherry tree, its bark rough like crushed dirt and branches dressed more finely than Deidameia herself with countless pink and white blossoms, stood proudly on top of the hill. It looked ancient and unmoveable, with deep roots and towering stature. 

From the hill's peak, Deidameia could see over the garden's wall. She had a distinct and complete view of the nobleman's mansions, peasant's streets, farmer's fields, and the crisp ocean cliffside. She could see everything. The King's castle was built on the highest point in the land, she remembered. 

"Wow," Deidameia exhaled, though she didn't believe "wow" explained how she felt effectively. She leaned against the tree and looked and looked.

Patroclus and Helen, who had seen this show of magnificence nearly everyday, watched their stepmother instead. Even Helen, despite being initially repulsed by the idea of Deidameia accompanying them, suffered a smile at the Queen's amazed expression. Patroclus' face was cracked into two pieces; skin and teeth. 

"Was it worth it?" He asked.

"Yes," Deidameia whispered, "I would run that far and that fast to see this again, many times." Her gaze was cemented to the illustration of human life. 

"No, I meant marrying our father," Patroclus corrected her tenderly. Helen's eyes scrutinized Deidameia's facial composition carefully, searching for answers. Answers she needed before the princess accepted Deidameia as her mother.

"It's too early to decide," Their stepmother said honestly, "But I think yes...Yes." There was a pause, a breath, as time held itself still. 

"So, the moon, what do I do with her, now that she's mine?"

Helen laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yall
> 
> thanks for reading and for kudos!
> 
> idk when you are reading this or how COVID-19 is affecting you, but wash your hands and practice social distancing please for your health! stay safe! 
> 
> i love you guys!


	4. In Which Achilles is Introduced

The wind rustled Achilles' feathered wings and long, golden hair. He considered it his trustworthy friend, knowledgeable in his likes and dislikes. The wind seemed to strive to satisfy and entertain the fairy and occasionally woke him up just in time for sunrise. 

Achilles stretched, pressing his smooth back against the tree's rough branch, and yawned, his jaw unhinged like a snake's. His feathered wings, on either side of the branch, fluttered and flapped, subconsciously anxious for flight. He stared up into the leaves, green with springtime, and grinned. The fairy closed his eyes and tilted face upwards, and consequently his hooked horns backward, towards the sun's warm touch. 

"Achilles!" A little voice peeped. A white-haired and thumb-sized pixie, Achilles had already forgotten the name of, twittered to the left of his face. 

"Achilles! Achilles!" He stubbornly pipped, repeatedly tapping the fairy's cheek with a small hand. Pixies were known to be totally ignorant of their tiny size. They were rude and demanding, often forgetting how easy it would be for Achilles to crush them with a swipe of his wing. 

"I'm awake, what do you want?" Achilles growled, he didn't care how menacing he sounded. The pixie was not threatened, he hovered in the air very near to Achilles' nose, wagging his finger. Achilles had to go cross-eyed to make-out the pixie's pissed off features. 

"Hey, don't be like that to me, sir!" The pixie said quite bravely for a creature whose voice sounded like fizzing wine. "I don't want you, Chiron does! He sent me to tell you-"

"To tell me what?" Achilles demanded, now wide awake and sitting up.

"I'm getting there!" The pixie huffed and wiped some of Achilles' spit from his face, "Fairies think they're so superior! I'm not a lesser species, sir!" Achilles rolled his eyes. 

For nearly all fifteen years of his life, various influential pixies were hurling campaign slogans and advocating for "equal rights," yet Achilles thought all magical creatures were already given fair and equivalent treatment in this land. Though Achilles was not a pixie (and glad for it) so he honestly didn't have the most valid evaluation of the situation. 

"Get on with it," Achilles commanded roughly.

The pixie snarled. Behavior that Achilles had assumed pixies, with their sparkly clothing and fragile bones, were incapable of performing. 

"Please," He said begrudgingly. Achilles had already kissed his relaxing morning wake-up goodbye, now he was pleading with pixies. An insult to his power. 

"Another human crossed the River Xanthus," The pixie informed him, he crossed his arms. "Chiron and the border guards caught him, but they're waiting for your rule until they take action." 

"Shit," Achilles hissed, typically Chiron handled these meager invasions alone but with the recent increased number of them he called on the young King, Achilles, to assist. Typically as an exclusively political figure, which Achilles scorned. Achilles' claw-like fingernails thirsted for blood.

"Where?" The teenage King asked. 

"East," The pixie peeped minimally.

His wings, aching to feel the freedom of flight, scooped up two armfuls of wind and his torso twisted toward a space void of any branches. Achilles, within three powerful pulses of his wings, escaped the clutches of the tree by launching himself through that inadequate space. He swooped downwards, dodging low hanging branches and watching the world around him blur from speed.

"Fairies! Always in a rush with their large damnable wings!" The pixie, who was hurled violently backward the instant Achilles lifted-off, screamed despite the King already being out of hearing range.

"Aye! It's Achilles!" A broad-shouldered and plump goblin whooped from below the flying boy King. He was carrying handfuls of spotted mushrooms across a mossy bridge. His brother goblin named Ajax the Lesser, lifted up the cry as well, jumping up and down next to Ajax the Great. 

Due to their loosened grips, mushrooms spilled across the soggy wood, sending chunks of the fungi flying. Underneath the bridge, the scaley mermaids inhabiting the blue rushing water hissed complaints about the brothers' disruptiveness. 

Achilles' lips curled up into a smirk. He performed a flawless barrel roll simply to show off to the goblin brothers and others who might've been watching. The cheering was a delightful chorus to his ears. 

Gratefully, his bones hummed with the pleasure of soaring. The undaunted sun, illuminating the sky with pinks, reds, blues, and yellows, shined directly in his eyes. Achilles felt unstoppable.

The world of magic was a gorgeous dazzle behind him, and Achilles positioned his wings to slow his momentum by catching a forceful breeze. His hair was a windblown mess and he felt too energized to land yet, but he saw Chiron's smooth haunches ahead of him. 

Suddenly, the ground was underneath his feet and he jogged forward to the scene, his tunic brushing roughly against his thighs. Reluctantly he folded his pure white wings. 

The centaur turned his head to the approaching King, shifting his hooves to face him. A few of the lycans and tree nymphs, collectively the border guards of River Xanthus, nodded in his direction. The others' attentions were engrossed with the entrance of a certain cave. They formed a semicircle around this cave, which possessed a rose crystal interior. 

Three nymphs, whose average human-sized bodies were composed entirely of bark, twisted sprouts, occasional leaves, and holes in their heads for eyes, carried lengthy spears. The two lycans in their furry wolf forms bared their sharp teeth. Both groups seemed to be on edge, thrusting their spears or their faces towards the darkness of the cave. 

"Achilles," Chiron addressed. "I'm amusing Dante told you the problem," -Oh, so Dante was the pixie's name, Achilles registered faintly- "The scout is in there, cowering." 

"Why haven't we killed him yet?" Achilles growled more harshly than he meant to, rage boiling in his chest. His heart still pounded from the flight.

Condemnation flickered on Chiron's face, making Achilles feel small. Chiron had once been Achilles' trainer before Achilles had "learned all he could" from him, yet, even after the passing years, the centaur still remembered how to summon shame in the boy. 

"We're waiting for the Council," Chiron informed him, his horse's tail swishing almost nervously, but Achilles knew Chiron wasn't one for nervousness. 

"The Council," Achilles spat. Achilles knew the loyal border guards were awaiting the King's word, not the Council's trivial opinion. Achilles could demand that the spy be ripped apart and his flesh to be used for fish bait and the warriors would obey...if the Council and Chiron would stop putting Achilles' leadership in a constraining box. 

"Your mother-"

"Was the most powerful fairy alive, Chiron," Achilles interrupted, his hands turned into fists at his sides, his knuckles were white. 

He hated the talk of his mother. It reminded him he was an abnormally, a freak of nature. A child born of a fairy raped by a human was something to be ashamed of. Achilles historically had difficulty with being thankful and admitting that he was wrong or weak. His origin and also the fact that, instead of earning it himself, Thetis essentially handed him the throne after her death frustrated him. He was doomed to endlessly prove himself for the rest of his life, a life shortened by his human blood. 

"She could do whatever the hell she wanted."

"Thetis welcomed the advice of others," Chiron guaranteed, his mouth slipped into a frown, "as I hope you would." Achilles hissed indecently. 

"You have spent too many nights with the mermaids, Your Highness," Chiron said offhandedly. The vain and bitter race of the mermaids, according to legends, drowned sailors after seducing them with their goddess-like looks. 

"That's a compliment." 

"Here they are," Chiron called, ignoring Achilles' comment. The Council was a group of the three fairies, the sole descendants remaining of their kind, beside Achilles. The rest of the fairies had been hunted to extinction or scattered across the undiscovered parts of the world. Most obviously unlike Achilles, they were only about a foot tall. Which Achilles was happy to remind them at every moment possible. 

Their leader, not in writing but definitely in social status, named Odysseus, fluttered towards Chiron. He was dressed in a blue robe, fine and silky, his company of two floated behind him. Penelope, rumored to have sexual relations with the former fairy, was clothed in an olive-colored dress. She waved shyly to Achilles, which he pretended to not notice. Diomedes, a disapproving snarl etched into his face like stone, lingered behind the pair, he was dressed in red. 

"King Achilles, Master Chiron," Odysseus greeted, his hands were folded behind his back, his eyes glittering with intelligence as he surveyed the situation. "I trust no steps were taken without our approval?"

Achilles laughed menacingly. "Your fuckin-?"

"Of course not, Odysseus," Chiron promised, cutting off Achilles before Diomedes could attempt to wring his neck, "I'm glad you're here, no matter how long it took you," Chiron added spitefully. Odysseus' eyes flashed dangerously to the centaur's countenance. 

"So, we heard there was a human spy?" Penelope urged smoothly, her hair was tied up in a complicated bun on her head, looking obnoxiously posh, Achilles deemed, "We're here to help make a decision on his future." 

Penelope's voice was pitched high as if she was excited about the whole ordeal, or maybe her small size was making her sound that way.

"There is no deciding needed," Achilles insisted, he leaned over Penelope, causing her bug-like transparent wings to flutter backward and away from his intimidating size, "I can just go in there and drag him out by his neck-"

"I like this plan," Diomedes muttered. 

"No, we have to do this diplomatically," Odysseus argued, positioning himself assuredly between Penelope and Achilles, "The humans are just going to keep coming, we can't kill all of them-"

"Yes, we can," Achilles grumbled. 

"We need to make peace! We don't know what they've been planning nor their reasons nor their resources. Our best bet is not to engage. When the dust settles, we didn't start the fight," Odysseus ranted quite grandly using swinging and rotating hand motions. The rest of the Council and Chiron listened and watched politely, however, Achilles wasn't one to conform. 

"We shouldn't even let it come down to fighting!" The blue fairy claimed. 

Achilles observed as the tension between the lycans, the nymphs and the cave was brewing like a potion in a cauldron. Their stress was bubbling over with every passionate word Odysseus spoke, soon enough their primary instincts would force them to enter the cave on their own accord. Achilles seethed because the others were too absorbed with debating to see clearly that the distance between the creatures and the cave was shrinking.

"I'll do it myself." 

Achilles propelled himself into flight. His erratic wings hammered the air and he soared over Chiron's bulk into the mouth of the cave. Chiron beckoned after him but Achilles ignored his call. 

The cave's darkness was overwhelming as if Achilles' eyes were closed. 

"Come out, you filthy murderer!" Achilles cried, his wings were a thunderous tornado as he searched the crystal corners for any movement or warmth.

Achilles rarely used magic, to him it was unpredictable and a separate part of himself he hated to address. The part he inherited from his mother. Odysseus, Diomedes, and Penelope had shown him impressive displays of magic once upon a time. Contrast to their artistic talents for blessings and beauty, Achilles' magic took a destructive turn. 

Achilles screeched and shoved his hands away from him. Fearsome fire, bright neon green and hot as dragon's breath, ignited on his upturned palms. It streamed up from his gut, through his blood, and to his hands. The roar was endless and burning, filling and scorching every inch of the cave, yet somehow Achilles himself was untouched. The rose crystal glowed orange due to heat and the darkness of the cave was abolished within seconds. After several moments of fury, he dropped his hands. Just like that, the fire was swallowed up and the cave was dry. And bare. The human was not here.

Achilles swooped out of the cave, something like green steam shimmered on his skin. The nymphs and lycans watched expectantly, their spears still pointed and teeth still bared. Chiron's eyes were wide and his hooves dug into the dirt. The Council hovered in the breeze and their jaws were dropped from surprise.

"You fools wasted our time," Achilles snapped, "He's gone." 

"We had him, Achilles," Menelaus growled, a lycan who must've transformed into his human form while Achilles was distracted with desolating the cave.

"I swear it," He bowed, his eyes downcast and his knees in the dirt at Achilles' feet. An exasperated blush rose on his cheeks, in human form, the lycan was now aware of his nakedness. 

Menelaus was close to Achilles' age, and their bodies, toned with muscle and bronzed, were comparable. Achilles' gaze freely explored over and down Menelaus' form like the King was looking at his own reflection in a pool. Abruptly, the light hairs on his stomach turned dark and Achilles sidetracked his eyes. A dim blush surfaced on the fairy's cheeks. 

Agamemnon's furry skin stretched, his teeth squared, his ears rounded out and shrunk into their human size. Unlike his brother, the now transformed Agamemnon stood tall on two legs, grimacing at his King. The mid-age lycan grasped Menelaus' shoulder and tugged him upwards, not in the least humbled by the god-like demonstration of Achilles' fervor. Menelaus shifted uncomfortably on his two bare feet. 

"Are you sure you didn't reduce him to ashes in there?" Agamemnon inquired, a cruel edge to his voice. Achilles wrinkled his nose. 

"I didn't."

A nymph murmured something incomprehensible in the breezy tongue of the plants. A second one agreed, kindly shoving the other with its leafy shoulder. Achilles smothered them with a scowl, and they were tranquil. 

"You were supposed to wait!" Odysseus scolded contemptuously, speeding towards Achilles' face. "We decide together! This is the way of the democratic Council of our people!"

"Go to hell!" Achilles upbraided and launched himself once more into the sky. His body lifted above the trees' abundant branches and out of the ground occupants' sight.

"What a baby," Penelope degraded quietly, shaking her head. 

"It almost makes me wish for Thetis," Diomedes grimaced. Odysseus barked agreement. 

"How are we ever going to endure more human contact?" Chiron reflected softly, his gaze was still locked on the section of leaves where Achilles had made his escape through. 

"Search the area," He commanded the border guards. The brother lycans transformed instantly back into gnarring wolves and the nymphs chittered before sprinting off into different directions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for adding like 10 characters (including OCs like Dante or *the nymphs) in one chapter! simply ask if any of the magic or character choices are confusing 
> 
> thanks for reading and for kudos!
> 
> note: yes!! Odysseus, Penelope, and Diomedes were the ones who blessed baby Patroclus and Helen. so, yeah!
> 
> *i based the nymphs off of the movie Maleficent rather than greek myth, so


	5. In Which the Family Fights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: some hints of domestic abuse

Deep within the castle's walls, in the darkness and privacy of the strategic warfare room, stood King Menoetius. The room had only two torches ablaze and consequently, the air was chilling, but his velvet king's robe, bordered with mammal's fur, kept him warm. A detailed map was draped over the table in front of him like a patterned quilt. It was littered with small figurines resembling spies, catapults, and soldiers. Even a miniature clay man, representing Menoetius himself, topped with a painted crown, was positioned behind a sizable legion of fighters and officers. 

Menoetius looked on with pride like a child admiring his finger paint art. The clay men looked frightening, all lined up in perfectly parallel columns before the River Scamander. They resembled a unified fist, ready to strike to the heart of the mysterious magical forest. 

Of course, not a single one of these figurines genuinely portrayed real people or real objects in current locations. However, the King had high hopes that, as depicted by the trinkets, all of this would come to pass. 

He believed the woods would eventually be his to command, and its inhabitants his to bring to justice for the murder of his late wife. 

Menoetius smiled inhumanly. Widows still lived whose husbands and children his great grandfather had killed in combat. The tales of his conquest were shiningly painted on canvases spread out across the castle. Detailed accounts describing his ability for conquering and pillaging were written in ink on sandpaper scrolls assembled on the shelves of the royal library. Solid proof of the legend's great triumph was the gold decorating the castle and the sliver packing the kingdom's safes. Menoetius' kingdom was born in blood and raised up by violence. 

Menoetius' father, and his father before him, had slowly organized the fruit of his great grandfather's labor. They built up this country, from an insignificant seaport to a city of genuine recognition, by developing the market, trade, and inviting citizens. Though Menoetius had never been in a substantive battle before nor met him, he wanted more than anything to double the size of the kingdom and make his deceased great grandfather proud. Years ago elders had warned him saying that "war changes you," and twenty-year-old Menoetius had responded, "Of course it does, it fills your pockets with gold and your house with women." 

Until the glorious day of victory over the forest came, arranging these little marionettes and dreaming of the gory fantasy to come was his favorite past-time. His second favorite past-time being, of course, making love to Deidameia, a prize among women. 

Jaq, Menoetius' most trusted scout for nearly five years, enrolled in the room like a mouse, installing the entry's lock into its place behind him with ease. Click. 

Jaq was a short sleazy man, with a peculiarly pointed nose and a wicked smirk that identified him as a troublemaker. However, what made him most appealing to Menoetius, unlike others in his profession, Jaq was honest about his corruption and straightforward when he didn't want to answer a question you asked. Despite their long-standing relationship, Menoetius knew little information about Jaq overall, not even Jaq's age. (Though he looked anywhere from twenty to thirty, the King guessed) 

It hardly mattered. What the King did understand was this: Jaq was the best in all the land at his job. The scout told anecdotes of having been trapped in a sparkling cave by those wild beasts a few days ago, creatures Menoetius himself had yet to interact with, and he had victoriously evaded all ten of them. Including their affirmed teenage King. 

"I'm ready for the next assignment, Your Majesty," Jaq announced. King Menoetius jumped quite a few inches in the air at the sound of the scout's slimy voice, nearly spilling the entirety of his figurines on the floor. Jaq smirked, he liked proving to himself that he could sneak up on and startle his boss. It gave Jaq a sense of control. 

"Good gods, Jaq," Menoetius snarled, hiding from Jaq the embarrassment that had risen to his cheeks because of how obviously he had been frightened. "Stay at your post. I'll send for you if things change." 

"All due respect," Jaq began, he undoubtedly loved that phrase, "all due respect" could mean none at all, "for how long? I've given you buckets of information, nearly costing my life. What are you waiting for? It's clear you're anxious to claim what's rightfully yours, Your Highness." Jaq was laying on the admiration, boosting the King's self-esteem to blunt the potential sharp response to the scout's pressing questions. 

"I need motive," Menoetius supplied shortly, "to gain the people's support," He turned towards Jaq, his eyes were dim, "Something public...maybe fatal." 

Jaq savored this little bit of revealing insight into Menoetius' violent way of thinking. 

"Your wife's death should be enough," Jaq reminded him, shrugging as if the idea had carelessly crossed his mind for the first time, "it could be argued that the creatures' stability would be a threat to your life."

"Fool!" The King ridiculed vehemently, gnashing his teeth, "Nobody has believed my story in the past fourteen years," -Had it truly been that long? Menoetius felt ancient and ruined at the mention of the time- "They said 'that is just the way with twin births,' and 'Philomela's mind was already gone, her life was what...it-it was expected.'" He was quiet then, his features shifting drastically between grief and rage. 

The King evoked that after Philomela's death was announced, some outlandish peasant rumors were spread, declaring that her passing was his fault. That their King had battered his innocent wife to death. Menoetius hoped to execute the source of these tall tales, but unfortunately, he had made no success at all with identifying them. His own people seemed to believe he was an abuser. Menoetius couldn't trust the masses to remain submissive to his rule if he forcibly recruited their sons for a professedly meaningless war. 

After all, Menoetius didn't want to share a destiny with his great grandfather, for it was a homebrewed and domestic assassin that had violently removed him from the throne so many years ago. 

"I think it is enough to gain momentum," Jaq insisted, he was pushing his luck with the King, he knew it, but he wanted so desperately to rise above his station and earn substantial money for once, to Hades with Menoetius' emotional trauma. The war's aftermath would make him wealthy, and not to mention a folk hero. The years of risking everything, all the running, and hiding would be worth it...The sooner the better. "The land beyond the River Scamander is plump with riches and ready for raiding."

"I think you want my head in a basket," Menoetius, surprisingly enough, chuckled as if they were old friends. Jaq delighted that his boss appeared to think their relationship was intimate, but truthfully Jaq didn't have any friends. Or even living family members. Only infrequent lovers he met at the town's various bars. 

Jaq forcefully inhaled, "I can assure you, my lord-" 

The spy was interrupted by a series of soft rhythmic knocks at the door. 

"Menoetius?" The voice belonged to Queen Deidameia, "Will you join us for breakfast today?" She sounded hopeful. 

The King sighed wearily, pushing the thoughts of war away. 

"Yes, my dear," he answered her loudly. His grip left the table's rim and he walked towards the exit. Yet, just before unlocking the door, he rose a hand to seize Jaq's shoulder. 

"Stay here awhile, rest. Then go back across the River," Menoetius bid Jaq coolly and quietly, while he held his collar firmly, "Prove your skill to me again, I want to know more about this Achilles." The foolish winged boy-king...Jaq nodded solemnly. 

After the words were exchanged, the King opened the door to his wife, who was dressed finely in a yellow gown and her blonde braid glittered with some assortment of gold and white pins. Deidameia smiled at him and reached up to stroke his face. His rough hand covered hers and squeezed it. 

"I knew I'd find you up here, it's where you spend all your time," Deidameia chided, though Jaq suspected she was blissfully ignorant of the wartime illusions Menoetius constructed in this room. "Eat with your family, will you?" 

"For you, anything," Menoetius promised and held her hand, allowing himself to be dragged from the doorway. Jaq watched quietly.

Secretly, Jaq fantasized about having a similar conversation with a nameless future wife he was destined to have. The grievous tug in his chest signified that he wanted so badly to have her, no matter who she was, how elegant her face, or dress. Deep down in his heart of stone, Jaq wanted to be loved and to give love. 

Jaq shook his head free of those effortless images and sounds, cursing himself mercilessly. Love was to be put on hold. He was the King's puppet, his little figurine, first and foremost. 

✧ ✧ ✧

"-not only that but equal pay!" Helen vociferously ranted, her tight fist pulverized the dining table and plates of breakfast foods rattled, "This is obvious! No one should care which gender performs the job! If it gets done the employer is supposed to pay the worker fairly." 

Patroclus was only half-listening to his twin, mostly, he was enjoying the plate of cinnamon rolls in front of him. The prince chewed leisurely, sugary crumb by sugary crumb, irregularly pausing to twirl his fork in the mass of bread. 

He was absorbed in thought about his training this afternoon with Phoinix, the twin's permanent royal educator ever since their last one fitfully retired. Recently, Phoinix allowed Patroclus to pick an extra subject of his choice, recognizing Patroclus was a responsible fourteen-year-old and beyond excelling at his core studies. Patroclus, after much debate with himself, choose falconry. 

Intrigued by the book's cover art, Patroclus had freshly read about the practice in an explanatory but fascinating book from the royal library. (A place he was very familiar with on account that he spent many hours nestled among the stacks and stacks of leather-bound books) Majestic animals and nature were Patroclus' favorite things, second only to reading a delightful fairy tale, so in the end, the class selection was easy. With the falcon, now in Phoinix's possession, after recently being imported by a traveling merchant, the prince could spend time outdoors and even gain a loyal companion. Today, he would begin by gaining the bird's trust by setting it on his forearm, wearing a leather glove to protect himself from its talons. 

Patroclus was nervous, but also childishly excited. He promised himself, however, that before he was to meet his new bird colleague, the prince should name him. Something a mighty warrior would be called in a well-loved novel with singed and crinkled pages. Something a grand king who conquested across the frigid seas would be named. Or perhaps, something a newly discovered flower, delicate and soft, would be identified by a self-proclaimed botanist. Or maybe-

"Are you hearing me, Patroclus?" Helen interrogated, "This is important!" She snapped, his sister was angrily chopping the space in front of her with her left hand, her bleached skin reddened with frustration. 

"No, I was distracted," He admitted, a faint blush tinted the tips of his ears, "I'm sorry, Helen." Helen sighed, she couldn't stay mad at her brother for long, his apologies were simply too genuine. 

"Well, what were you thinking about instead?" Helen asked, not out of politeness, behavior which she had pushed far beneath her in her adolescence, she asked out of curiosity. She was curious to see what her twin might say, for he hardly ever lied, and if it was worth more than a political discussion about equality. (Which Helen thought most men needed to clean their ears out to hear)

"What to name my falcon," Patroclus said, shoving another bite into his mouth. Ah, yes, Patroclus was pursuing falconry as of this afternoon. For the longest time, Helen was the singular child allowed to take on extra studies because of her otherworldly intellect. However, Helen refused them, for she much rather spend her time climbing trees or skipping rocks in the King's garden. Plus, she had a disagreeable opinion of old man Phoinix's traditional teaching style. (The teacher always made feelings of inferiority rise in Helen merely because she was female) Ultimately, Patroclus, who had become increasingly self-controlled in the current years, was able to catch up to his sister education wise and now was able to take on extra classes too. A twinge of jealousy struck Helen's heart at how thoughtlessly he had accepted the studies and additional workload, promptly meaning his hours with Phoinix greatly outnumbered his hours with Helen. 

"Eumaeus."

Patroclus laughed, not menacingly but innocently, like he had not a care in the world. Helen knew he did, though, he was the most caring person she had ever had the pleasure of knowing. "Why that name?" He asked.

"I'm not sure why, it was the first one I thought of," She wasn't lying, the name had no earthly significance to her. Helen caressed her chin thoughtfully, a little habit she wasn't close to or planning on losing.

"Eumaeus sounds mighty, don't you think?" Patroclus wondered aloud, "Maybe the name of a simple swineherd, who protected six children from a ferocious bear-"

"-standing up on his back paws, growling like thunder, ready to launch itself just to get a taste of those little bags of flesh!" Helen shouted dramatically, now heavily invested in the storytelling of this character, Eumaeus, the brave yet poor ranger, "The bear suddenly recoiled in fear as a measly pitchfork, mastered by the hand of dear old Eumaeus, was thrust into his snout! It lumbered back into the shelter of the woods, its head hung low in defeat. The children were saved!" Helen cried, she now stood, her right arm extended into the air, her hand holding a petite fork like a blazing torch. 

Oh, how Helen loved receiving attention for her strength, loud voice, and most often her beauty. Her beauty was power, granting her authority over nearly anyone she encountered. She smiled radiantly towards the ceiling, conscious that others would feel embarrassed in her unladylike position, but Helen was not like the others. She was boundless. And strong.

Patroclus gasped with glee, applauding feverishly. "Wow, it sounds so wonderful when you tell a story, Helen." 

Removing her gaze from the sky to dip her head in a bow, Helen curtsied and bat her eyes exaggeratedly. "Thank you, my dear prin-"

Patroclus and Helen jerked their heads towards the sound of the dining room's gates opening. Deidameia, along with Menoetius, (Patroclus swore she could convince him to do anything) entered the hall. 

The King scanned the table and the luxuries upon it with hungry and wide eyes, and Patroclus feared it had been long since he had eaten. Patroclus recalled that his father had often been purposefully forgetful of his bodily needs to attend to authoritative work. The Queen, with shimmering appearance, disregarded the food and marched towards her daughter swiftly seemingly to hug her. 

Helen's egotistic character, as Patroclus had frequently observed in his childhood, was instantly diminished by the presence of Deidameia.

"Good morning, stepmother," Helen greeted brightly and slipped out from in front of her chair to quickly peck Deidameia's cheek before she could pitch the hug. 

"Princess Helen," Deidameia spoke pleasantly, pulling the now standing girl towards her, "looking lovely as always." 

Helen blushed, as she only allowed herself to do in the company of her family, and muttered thanks. She wrapped her arms around the Queen and pressed her beautiful face into Deidameia's clothed chest. 

King Menoetius, overlooking niceties as was his common practice, rushed to the head of the table and pulled out the chair to sit. Two servants hastened to his side, already prepared for his arrival with multiple covered platters of food to present before their King. As they revealed the platters' contents, Menoetius refused some and accepted others. Soon enough, the tabletop before him was loaded with numerous steaming silver plates. Patroclus' father began to feast, ignoring proper manners and eating with his fingers instead of silverware. 

"How was your sleep, father?" Patroclus asked politely, searching the man's face for acknowledgment of his words. Menoetius glanced up, seemingly surprised to notice his son was only a few seats away. His brow furrowed and he licked his fingers before replying.

"Fine, Patroclus." The corners of Patroclus' lips shifted downward, he had a sinking suspicion his father was lying to him. Patroclus had always believed fathers never misled their children, it was so in dozens of exceptional publications he had read. 

"What a pleasant day, Patroclus. Are you enjoying that cinnamon bun?" Deidameia inquired warmly, she was very deliberate about greeting both of her children at breakfast, a short check up on how they were doing, making certain they felt included and loved. Earlier in life, (maybe five years ago in fact) she would've considered it a terribly boring and worthless fate to be a mother, but now her mind had drastically changed. The Queen would do anything to keep Helen and Patroclus happy and healthy, and she wouldn't trade her mothership for anything. She was finally at peace. The only hate left in her heart was for her reluctant womb which had yet to bear a single child for her husband, though they had tried countless times. Menoetius, though he hadn't expressed it yet, must feel vast disappointment with his six-year-long good-looking but barren wife.

Deidameia was sitting next to Helen on the side nearest her husband. Her elbows were propped up on the table and her chin rested on her intertwined fingers. Another servant, dark-skinned and stout, served the Queen, bringing new plates of fine stores. 

"I am very much so," Patroclus warranted, he grinned sloppily at the Queen, then tossed his glance up to the servant who was revealing platters for his stepmother. The young boy looked across the table to the prince, and his eyes held Patroclus' for a moment, opaque black on honey-brown. The servant then shunted his eyes, and if Patroclus was not mistaken, a red-hot blush had mounted on his cheeks. Though the prince could not pinpoint the cause... 

A few minutes of serene eating commenced. The echoes of clashing forks and swishing liquids bounced off the dining room's roof. Though the dining table had enough cushioned chairs to serve over twenty extra guests, Patroclus felt well-disposed and complete. It was a rare thing, the family of four eating together. But, Deidameia in all her motherly grace and splendor, had recently become insistent upon it. The prince thought the family better off because of the intentional time they spent together. Finally, Deidameia spoke. 

"Has Helen told you of her new exciting ideas, King Menoetius?" Deidameia asked, and Helen's face lit up eagerly at the invitation to speak. 

"She has not," Menoetius grunted. 

"Father, I think I want to make a speech, one to launch an equality movement for women," Helen began boldly, her voice oozing with confidence and excitement, "My first point will, of course, be choice. Women are entitled to their free will. Many women often feel chained by others' decrees, including and especially involving marriage. A nine-year-old girl doesn't want to marry a forty-year-old man! Let her decide her husband and lover whenever she feels the time is right-"

"What?" Menoetius demanded sharply, his eyes narrowing threateningly. A large chunk of fresh bread slid between his fingers and unto his plate, crumbs of it still lodged in his beard, "I'm not sure I heard you correctly."

Helen, unphased by his indignity, continued on, "I said women should be allowed to choose their husbands."

"Where did you get an idea like that?" The King snapped, now completely focused on Helen, "No daughter of mine would be thinking this way." 

Deidameia's eyes darted nervously between Helen and her husband. A lump formed in Patroclus' throat, the cinnamon bun was suddenly distasteful. Servants smartly scampered from the room, Patroclus glanced the boy servant once more before his frightened expression disappeared behind a closing door.

The prince held his breath. 

"I am your daughter and this is what I believe," Helen insisted, her eyes a cold glare, her knuckles turned white as her hand formed a fist, "I-"

"You are a fourteen-year-old girl!" Menoetius yelled, his face was twisted grotesquely during anger, "Your mother wasn't much older than you when she was engaged to me. You should be thankful that I don't ship your ass off across the sea right now! Men from all across the lands, old, young, violent, charming, ugly, or handsome, would pay a heavy price to wed and bed you, you ungrateful whelp." 

The storm of Helen's eyes lost its energy, and her jaw unhinged from shock. The scolding of the princess was as rare as the liquid of the sun. Helen being denied the freedom of speech was as foreign as the fragrances of the Middle East. The air was heavy with tension.

"Menoetius," Deidameia spoke evenly, "do not speak so cruelly to our daughter," her eyes were downcast. 

"To my daughter," Menoetius corrected harshly, "you have no children here, woman."

"Do not talk to me of children!" Deidameia screamed, she was standing now, her fists slamming the table with each word. 

She was the vine from which we all grew, Patroclus thought, she nourished our family with generous and loving water. How the twins had survived eight years without their stepmother, Patroclus did not know, (though, he and Helen had been one soul then. The mothers and protectors of each other, with their own language to bind them) Deidameia never raised her voice, she never got angry, she never raged. This was a side of her he never knew. 

"I have raised Helen and Patroclus alone," Deidameia breathed heavily, "While you, a coward of a father, hid in the inner rooms doing only the gods know what! You have neglected your children and your kingdom! You know nothing of the poverty the poor suffer, the prejudice women endure, or the persecution the deaf, lame, or disabled face. You won't even listen! How can you call yourself a King?"

A loud horrid noise erupted, the sound of flesh hitting flesh. Deidameia's chin pointed directly left, her face was thrown to the side from impact. Menoetius' hand, a calloused hand but one Patroclus never had associated with violence, had struck Deidameia across the face. His arm was currently curved near his person, an implication of how much force he put into the swing. He had raced so quickly that Patroclus was unable to comprehend his movement until he was hitting Deidameia. The King now loomed over her, he was a least a head taller than the woman, his lips contorted disgustingly into a scowl. Patroclus' heart had long since stopped.

Deidameia's dainty hand shot up to cover the reddening bruise forming on her cheek. Crystal clear tears welled up at the corners of her eyes. Her vision blurred and a ghastly memory consumed her mind.

She was six again, a little blonde girl with the bones of a bird. A pillow, a fluffy thing meant for comfort, was crushing her facial features. Her eyelids were pressed closed and lungs burned from lack of oxygen. She struggled, gasping for breath, feeling fatally faint. Her brother shoved his knees into the soft part of her skin underneath her elbows, simultaneously his hands drove the bundle of cloth tortuously down on Deidameia's face. She was pinned down, wheezing and flopping stupidly like a fish out of water. He lifted the pillow then, a nasty glower on his face, he opened his mouth to speak. Hatred and dread swelled in her heart. Deidameia inhaled like a wild animal and hoisted her leg to his crotch. He yelped in pain and tumbled off of his sister's body. Breathless Deidameia got up and sprinted from the room, from the castle, from the courtyard, and didn't stop running until she reached the field bordering her home's walls. There, her legs gave way and she wept into the grass. 

Deidameia ripped herself from the painful memory and turned away from her attacker. She hoisted up her skirts and bolted to the doors of the dining hall. Menoetius, the speechless idiot, blubbered in astonishment and held his hands out in front of him. He stared at them as if he couldn't believe his own body's capabilities, or like something had possessed him, forcing him to strike his wife. The King shouted wordless noise after the fleeing Queen, but it was too late. The doors crashed shut behind her and she sailed through the halls as fast as her legs could carry her. She dodged servants attending their duties faithfully and the occasional decorated table shoved against the wall. 

Suddenly, Deidameia was outside the castle, the burn of the slap pulsing in her cheek. She frantically glanced around, her mind going blank. She needed to run, the gods knew she was good at running, but she had virtually no idea where to go. Her comfort place, the royal gardens were in the opposite direction. She panicked. Deidameia felt like the world was rapidly closing in on her, she was forgetting her own name, why was every single noise so achingly intense?... She spotted the stables. 

The stable boy, named Automedon, brushed Dasia's coat with a block of wood embedded with soft bristles. Automedon enjoyed keeping her silky black coat and mane in pristine condition. Automedon thought she was the finest horse of those who resided at the royal stables, her body rippled with muscle and her long legs were infused with the genes of racehorses. Automedon often thought the mare was worthy of being ridden by the King himself. 

Queen Deidameia, with scrunched up yellow dress rising above her knees and undone braid flying behind her, rushed into the stables. The horses, twenty in all lined up, stall by stall, neighed and whinnied at the sight of the newcomer. Some of the more untamed ones even rose to kick the air with their front hooves. Automedon was thankful that Dasia simply gave the stranger a cautious once-over. The Queen's eyes were wide like a mad woman's, and Automedon was hesitant to address her. 

"Hello, Your Highness, do you wish to ride a horse today?" Automedon squeaked as politely as he could. 

"Yes," His boss panted, she strode towards him with purpose and intensity, "The one you brush now is fine, bring the saddle and reins, and please be quick." 

Automedon obeyed, unlocking Dasia's stable door and maneuvering around Deidameia towards the iron rack from which the saddles and reins were hung. He selected the most exceptional couple of them, the ones Dasia was most comfortable with and brought it over to the mare's box. Deidameia, now inside the stall, lifted a wary hand to stroke the horse's nose, which twitched as its nostrils were filled with the woman's unfamiliar scent. 

While Deidameia introduced herself to the mare, Automedon set the saddle on Dasia's back. He installed the hooks underneath her round belly and tugged the leather straps securely. Then he tucked the bridle's iron bit between the horse's lips. As the process commenced, he tentatively glanced up at the Queen's disgruntled face. Was he fooling himself, or was a bruise, the color of a seedless strawberry, rising on her cheekbone? What should he say? Should he say anything at all? He gave the sheepskin saddle one final tug to confirm its stability. 

"Do you need help-?" Automedon began shyly. 

"No," Deidameia responded and within an instant, she had pulled herself unto Dasia's back. Automedon sprang out of the way as the Queen, on the courageous mare's back, rode out of the stall. The hooves pounded against the cobblestone flooring varnished with dirty hay. Dasia was obviously zealous to be free of her wooden prison. Automedon watched the pair gallop out of the stables and across the plain of flattened grass. 

Quietly, he wished Deidameia the best of luck on whatever adventure she was going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wooooah this chapter is like twice the size of all the others, hot danng ive been busy
> 
> also my friggin classes are starting up again so chapter production might not be daily anymore,,,sorry you guys
> 
> please leave kudos! i'll respond to your questions and comments, i love yall so much! thanks for reading.


	6. In Which Deidameia Meets Achilles

"Where did she go, you petty rascal?" A royal guard demanded, he was dressed in white wool covered by an unclean iron chest plate, and a sword hung at his hip. The man, named Tharacus, held Automedon by the collar of his scratchy and ripped tunic. 

Tharacus' father had been a convicted criminal, who was sentenced for the rest of his life into the King's military service. That damn coward had hung himself using a bundled bedsheet in his cell before he could be released and forced into duty. Tharacus had only been thirteen at the time. The scared boy was then doomed to provide for his four younger sisters and widowed mother alone. Tharacus was always springing from job to job, living from paycheck to paycheck without the man he had admired most with him to ensure his mother's or sisters' safety. In a cruel twist of fate, three years later, he now worked as a member of the Royal Guard. The punishment position his father was supposed to endure. 

He hated nearly every moment of his life. Tharacus felt like the gods were laughing at the sardonic humor of it all from the clouds. Furthermore, as Tharacus patrolled he had been hearing his fellow guards chuckling at his misery from around corners. Admittedly, Tharacus was an easy target for their jokes, he had a birthmark the color of pig's flesh on his left cheek and his entire right hand was crinkled with molten flesh from a fire accident at the blacksmith's when he was a child. It still ached with a hollow burn, but that pain was nothing compared to the shame he experienced every day. He looked and felt like an outcast. 

Tharacus had no honor left to his name after his father's suicide. 

"Isn't that the man whose father killed himself?" Passersby would utter. 

Despite that, Tharacus was continually trying to complete his castle guard assignments as if he had a high reputation to maintain. His current task, along with others of his rank, was finding and returning the Queen who had stealthily departed from the castle grounds an hour ago. It was stupid of her to leave, he thought, she had privilege, power, beauty, and money. She probably fled believing it would grant her kingdom-wide attention, foolishly oblivious to the dangerous men and women that prevailed outside the luxury of her golden bedroom. Those who wanted to cripple, rob, or kidnap people of her status.

Currently, Tharacus was individually hunting down a lead, but he was facing resistance. Who did this nameless stable boy think he was to deny him information?

"Answer the damn question!" Tharacus roared into the boy's face, giving his limp body a good shake. Poor Automedon sputtered, seemingly unable to form words. The stable boy was unnaturally thin, Tharacus observed, except for his eyes which were large and flooded with fear. The tips of his tiny boots brushed against the barn's floor. Tharacus held him up easily (as if Automedon was a couple of grapes) with his non-injured hand, blue veins surfaced on the skin between his knuckles. 

"I-I don't know, sir!" Automedon choked out, his weak voice caused pity to severely flare in Tharacus, "Please, you have to believe me!" The guard forcibly shoved down his guilt. 

"I asked around," Tharacus said, his voice was a deadly whisper, he pulled Automedon's frightened face closer with every word, "a cute little maid told me she saw Her Majesty riding away on the back of a stable horse. Where was she planning on going with Dasia, stupid boy?" 

"She didn't tell me, honest! I don't know where she went!" Automedon insisted, shaking his head side to side frantically to prove his point. 

Tharacus then released his grasp on the servant boy's clothing. Automedon heavily landed on his behind and scrambled off the ground to his feet. But by then, Tharacus had already drawn his sword. It was a standard-issue with a timeworn blade and a rugged leather hilt. He placed the sharp point an inch away from Automedon's throat. The teenager's Adam apple nervously bobbed from thick swallowing. 

"Don't fool yourself into thinking you can lie to me." Tharacus needed this. He needed to recuse the Queen to prove himself worthy of his place among his peers. He hoped that after the success he would receive a raise to further support his sisters and his mother, who had recently contracted the fever. And any potential admiration from the Royal Guard was a plus. 

"Please, lower your blade," A new voice commanded, though it sounded as gentle as a suggestion. Patroclus, the prince, stood at the barn's swinging doors. Tharacus, stubborn as an ox, was determined to keep his sword where it was, his eyes locked on Automedon's, which glittered with tears. Coward. He forced his gaze to jerk toward the newcomer's voice. Realizing the voice belonged to royalty, he immediately sheathed his sword. 

Tharacus faced Patroclus and shoved his knees into the hay covered cobblestone, keeping his eyes downcast. Though soldiers used their swords to intimidate citizens daily without authority's involvement or correction, it was still a punishable offense according to the law. The last thing Tharacus needed was a criminal record. Technically, he already had one considering every goddamn person he ever met took the "father like son" philosophy unreasonably seriously. 

"My prince."

"He already said he didn't know, Tharacus," Patroclus reminded him kindly, "He didn't need to be threatened." 

Tharacus cautiously glanced up, his heartbeat slowed as he studied the young and handsome chestnut-colored figure in front of him. His eyes were absolutely alluring with captivating swirls of honey and chocolate. His hair hung in boyishly wild curls and he wore clothes too simple to fit his social status. Tharacus had only seen Patroclus in person once or twice, but his charming painted portrait hung in one of the halls Tharacus patrolled nightly. Yet, even the skilled artist's brush could not capture the boy's pure almost inhuman beauty. 

"Forgive me, Your Highness, but why do you know my name?"

"I'm not deaf," Patroclus snickered, not sounding offended at all. Good. It still worried Tharacus, however, that he had captured the attention of this particular fourteen-year-old. 

Tharacus stared in wonder and fear. "I realize that but-"

"My father is the one who provides your salaries, so how am I to show my gratitude? Knowing your names is a start..." Patroclus explained, gracefully walking towards the guard, "forgive me for interrupting you." 

"It's-I'm fine," Tharacus stuttered, taken aback by the kind-hearted consideration of the prince. He cautiously glanced behind him and saw Automedon, the shallow stable boy was still standing, looking down at Tharacus with a faint condescending smirk on his lips. Tharacus scowled and stood, feeling like a fool because he was still on his knees. Automedon placed his hands on his hips and scooted a foot away from the guard. 

"Any luck finding my stepmother?" Patroclus asked, his eyes full of hope. Tharacus hated to be the one to crush it. 

"This stable boy was my only lead," Tharacus admitted sheepishly, "and he doesn't know anything," -Tharacus shot a rude look in Automedon's direction- "the other members of the Royal Guard might've found her, I'm not sure, though." Despite Tharacus' weak attempt to maintain the prince's hope, Patroclus looked away dismally. 

"My name is Automedon," The stable boy muttered and sniffed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. Tharacus scoffed and crossed his arms, carefully avoiding hurting his injured hand. He couldn't care less about knowing Automedon's name, but now that it was said it would be forever lodged in his head. Once a person or place was assigned a name, that noun's entire meaning was associated with that almost unforgettable word. Though the connotation could change, the name wouldn't. The name was tethered to that person with unbreakable ties. In Automedon's case, Tharacus would be reminded of his embarrassing interrogation and desperate need for worldly worth every time that name was spoken. Just great, Tharacus thought. 

"I'll leave you both to your duties," Patroclus said sadly and turned to leave. Both of the servants let him go freely, he was the prince after all. 

✧ ✧ ✧

Dasia leaped over a stray pumpkin, its orange flesh was bruised and dirted with the pathway's soil. Deidameia held the reins tightly to keep from flying off the horse. The Queen buried her face into the mare's thick mane and held Dasia's gut firmly between her thighs. Her legs and fingers were sore from the hour or so long ride, and the blood in her limbs flowed stiffly due to muscle stress and lack of movement. Deidameia had gone horse-riding often in her youth simply for the pleasure of it, but that was long ago. She was out of shape and practice. She prayed the prized steed named Dasia might forgive her lousy rider. 

Deidameia's journey was exactly what she needed to calm her spiking nerves. Dasia had ridden faithfully for miles without defiance as if the mare somehow sensed and sympathized with Deidameia's distress. Even to the extent of understanding the meaning behind her breathy cries of pain and sadness. Now, Deidameia was breathing easily, her lungs filled with the distilled air of the kingdom's countryside. Her braid was undone, its initial pins had been lost on the ride, and the full length of her hair swirled in the wind. She had spent so many tears and she was thankful that the pain of the slap was now a dull, negligible throb. Time had passed quickly into noon, and the memory of breakfast was in the clutches of the past. The mid-day heat of the overhead sun oppressed all underneath it with boiling light. Deidameia pitted the farmer who worked this rotting pumpkin field.

Soon enough, the rows of pumpkins staggeringly ended and a wooden gate closed off the farmer's territory. Glancing around, Deidameia believed she had reached the end of the kingdom; for beyond that unkempt fence was a rushing river and a dense, seemingly uninhabited forest. Curiously, a mysterious fog, which seemed to have the solidity of cotton, rested upon the waters and the green leaves of the trees. The fact that she couldn't see further than a few feet into the full and lush woods raised her feelings of intrusiveness rather than disturbed her. The Queen, bored with horse-riding, saw an opportunity for another distracting adventure. She pulled on the reins to slow Dasia's trot, and her hooves had stopped their movement before the mare had reached the fence. Deidameia swung her leg over Dasia's abdomen and jumped off her back, dragging her worn gown behind her. The Queen tugged on the reins and responsibly fastened the horse’s rope to the fence's post. 

"I'll only be gone for a moment," She promised in a whisper, petting the fur between Dasia's large, dark eyes. The horse blinked, her nostrils bludging, and Deidameia turned away from the animal's gaze to unlock the gate's hatch. She watched the edge of the river, which she vaguely recalled being named Scamander, as she approached. Her eyes were wide with wonder as she crossed it on perfectly positioned and sized mossy stones. Which were revealed because the surface level of the water was low. As her shimmering slippers hopped across the trail of pebbles, her heart was warmed with delight. 

Deidameia entered the woods. She touched the bark of various trees, ducked under stray branches, and tiptoed through thick underbrush. The air smelled like nature, crisp broken leaves and warm earth, and a quiet breeze brushed her neck. Everywhere she explored there was green. After a few minutes of confidently surging forward, her underskirt latched on a root, momentarily holding her back. As Deidameia tilted towards it and seized the cloth, ready to rip herself loose, her ears caught a rustling sound coming from above her in the trees. This was strange only because up until now the forest had been eerily silent. She looked up, but only saw leaves, which were consistently dark green but brightened in some places by sunlight. The wind whistled a foreign song.

Before Deidameia could continue tugging on the silky material, her body slammed into the ground and the breath shoved right out of her. Her mouth, open wide with surprise, tasted dirt, and her breasts and knees planted themselves into the forest floor. Hands, with wide and strong palms, held her shoulders, and bony knees dug into her lower back. The weight of a muscular body pushed her downward, the force initiated from these points. The combination rendered her motionless. All she could think was a single word: shit. 

Suddenly, her attacker grasped a handful of her hair and yanked it upwards, her neck was extended and contracted in certain places uncomfortably. 

"Ow!" Deidameia yelped, glancing a huge, white wing from the corner of her eye. 

"Who are you? Who sent you?" The person growled, he sounded masculine, and the nerves of her scalp yelped in pain from the strength of his tug. 

"Nobody sent me, let go! Let go of me!" Deidameia screamed like a savage animal, hoping someone might hear her call. She twisted and kicked wildly, but her stupid dress entrapped her legs in folds of fabric like a net and she was unable to toss off her mysterious foe. Then Deidameia instead flung her fists towards the figure, and she proudly got in a few hits on his soft flesh. But, he seized one of her wrists and pinned it to the forest floor. "Get off! Get off! Help! Help! Get off-" 

"Shut up!" He hissed, and he released his grip on her hair to grab her other wrist and her nose hit the ground with a painful thunk, "No one will hear you anyway, they've all since moved away from the border. You don't look like a spy, but," -he leaned towards her neck and breathed deeply- "you're human." Her wrists were trapped between his hands and the mossy ground. 

"Of course, I am. Now, release me!" Deidameia demanded, her heart pounding with panic and a cold sweat forming on her neck, "I haven't done anything wrong!" Her shout was muffled by a layer of moss and dirt. 

"How can I trust the words of a filthy human?" The man questioned harshly. 

"Because-Because-" -Come on, Deidameia, she whispered to herself- "I'm a priest! I can't lie or my god will strike me down!" Deidameia lied, it was an unbelievable stretch but pressure on her back wavered. She could tell he was thinking it over so she continued babbling, "I promise I mean you no harm. I was just exploring the beauty of the trees. Please, could you let me go?" She finished softly like she was talking to a stray cat. 

"Hmpf, fine," He muttered irritably, then pulled his grip away from her wrists and his knees began to lift, "but you'll leave, right?"

"Yes, definitely." 

Convinced by her words, Achilles stood, nervously flapping his falcon-like wings. He stared down at the human. He had finally caught one, but something within him prevented the fairy from completing his first kill. The Council and Chiron were out of sight and hearing range, so it would be so easy to snap her neck without consequences as Achilles had been dreaming of doing. Yet, hearing her frightened voice created hesitation in his killing claws. His breathing had faltered, and his heartbeat had slowed. She was unarmed, scared, disoriented, and of holy blood, apparently. Killing her would bring him to dishonor in the Underworld, and to shame on earth. 

Now, he stood a few feet away from her, his arms crossed over his muscular chest. She rolled over onto her back, and the layers and layers of shiny skirts tangled around her legs. Her heartbeat thudded against her corset and she desperately grabbed hold of a stray tree branch. The priestess pulled herself up and dusted off her dress with the utmost dignity, feeling much safer on her feet. Her face and dress were covered in dirt and moss. Then, her glance sidetracked for a moment to Achilles' form, and immediately she averted her eyes. The priestess must consider me to be some sort of demon, Achilles thought to himself. While she refused to look at him, he studied her mound of yanked hair and her pale, muddy face. She was very pretty, he thought, but in the way that sons would sometimes compliment their mothers. There was the formation of a red bruise, the size of a hand, on her cheek. Instantly, Achilles unwillingly felt guilty for hurting her. 

"Tell your god I didn't mean to hit your face so hard," Achilles snapped like it was a threat instead of a request. Deidameia flinched at the harshness of his words, and her hand leaped up to her face. Her fingers touched where the King had hit her and the pain was summoned back all at once. 

"Oh, you didn't do this, my husband did," Deidameia corrected hastily, then a moment later shame rose to her cheeks. Why did she tell this stranger something so personal? He had attacked her, and the anger still burned in the green of his eyes. He was tall, very muscular, and broad-shouldered for his age, Deidameia observed, for his round face identified him to be fifteen-years-old at the greatest. His lips were a gentle pink, his skin was clear and bronze, and his hair, made of threaded gold, hung in long waves beyond his shoulders. He wore a skirt, but no shirt, revealing his brawny and defined chest and arms. Honestly, a younger Deidameia would've found him quite attractive if it wasn't for his current scowl. But the most shocking thing about his otherworldly look was that horns, seemingly made out of fine ivory, sprouted and curved up from his head. And feathered white wings like a dove's, with a huge wingspan, fluttered at his sides. She had never before seen anything like him. Her tongue felt like mud in her mouth. 

"What? Why?" Achilles demanded, fury boiling in his chest at the idea of this unknown man hitting his wife. 

"I said something stupid to him," Deidameia admitted, her tongue, fluttering like the boy's wings, seemed to speak without her consent, "I always thought we had true love, but I guess that still didn't give me the right to slash out." Achilles cocked his head in confusion.

"Oh, you know, the fairy tale kind of love," Deidameia explained vaguely, gesturing with her hand, "including true love's kiss and all that," Yet, he still looked lost. Deidameia sighed.

"True love's kiss is a child’s myth. It is supposed to be the strongest, most powerful, most honest thing ever. Invincible. It is said that it can break any hatred, heal any wound... But now I'm not sure it exists..." Achilles watched her with strange pity.

Deidameia rushed on, adjusting the top of her skirt, "Anyway, he was threatening to send my...our daughter away into marriage. He said that she could win the heart of a very rich man because she's so beautiful. And talented, of course, she used to get very frustrated with people only acknowledging her outward appearance and not her heart or mind."

And just like that word vomit began to pour out, seemingly without restraint- "but Patroclus would always cheer her up. He has a wonderful heart, you know, so he was good at that. As kids, they always seemed to have a mental connection, like, they seemed to talk to each other in a secret language. Their relationship used to make me feel inferior and jealous, but now, either they're not as close as they used to be or I've finally filled their mother's void. Which I didn’t think a stepmother could do. In the tales we tell our kids they’re downright wicked but maybe...I'm sorry, you told me to leave. I'll be on my way," Deidameia realized she was probably going to change his mind about letting her go if she kept talking. She pulled up her skirts and began the walk back to Dasia. As she passed the fairy, with her eyes down, the winged boy suddenly on impulse grabbed her arm. 

Achilles had currently no idea why he did it. It just was feeling so good to hear a new voice, a kind one, in the woods. From someone that wasn’t expecting him to save the world at the most or do a barrel roll at the least. From someone that didn’t know him, that had no record of his wrongs. Someone who reminded him of a mother…the mother who he never had. 

"Tell me more," He begged, his lips turned into a babyish pout. Deidameia stared at him in wonder. 

"Oh, okay," He released his hold on her and smiled, the smile momentarily disabling the Queen's brain. She knew she should just leave, but his features were so hopeful, and his strange additional body parts seemed to blur. Well, what could a few minutes hurt? She looked around and found a smooth stone to sit on. The boy sat down in front of her and crisscrossed his legs like he was readying for storytime. Deidameia folded her hands and inhaled sharply, she closed her eyes and tried to regain her train of thought. But the boy's bright gaze was so intense she couldn't think. 

"Um, I'm sorry, but what is your name?" Deidameia asked, opening one of her eyes almost suspiciously. She was stalling as the back of her mind prepped an interesting story to tell him. The story of her life. 

"Achilles, the son of Thetis," He answered eagerly. 

"Oh, my name is Deidameia. I'm the daughter of Lycomedes," Deidameia replied, then she realized her mistake. If he recognized her father's name, he would know her to be a princess. And a liar. As she panicked, thankfully, nothing similar to recognition dawned on his features. 

"So...?" Achilles urged, his wings fluttered obnoxiously, unable to be still. 

Deidameia entertained him with stories of her growing up with her brothers, skipping over or censoring some of the more traumatic memories. Then she moved on to her marriage to Menoetius, leaving out the sections that would signify them as royalty. As Deidameia had done when she practiced dance, she used her hands to paint a brighter picture and her voice to convey emotions. The Queen attempted to mirror herself after Helen, who was quite an enthusiastic storyteller. Achilles' eyes would widen with delight and his laughter would pitch with praise at her tales. Deidameia doubted there were many sources of entertainment in the forest, so she was glad to satisfy him. As the Queen was showered with Achilles' visual admiration, she felt like she was participating in her old hobby of dancing again. 

Finally, she began to describe the characteristics of Helen and Patroclus. 

"Wait, wait," Achilles stopped her, holding up his right hand, "What exactly is the relationship between them?" His expression, more like a poker face, was unreadable. 

"They're twins, my children," Deidameia clarified, frowning, "Why do you ask?" 

"No reason, you may continue." 

"Well, Helen is beautiful in the way sunsets are, majestic and untouchable. And she knows it. She knows she can stop a person's heartbeat-" -she snapped her fingers for emphasis- "-just with a glance. When she speaks people listen, worshipping her with their attention. She absolutely loves being the epicenter of the action, so I do my best to allow her to be. But Patroclus dislikes it. He's handsome in the way the fields are, innocent and inviting. But, he seems to think himself unworthy of attention. Like he's forgotten what the mirror looks like. I try to make him feel important and powerful, but I suppose being ignorant isn't all that bad. It makes his heart humble and loving to everything and everyone. I love them both very much," Deidameia said, and her eyes stung, threatening to overflow with tears. She closed her eyes tightly, attempting to suppress the crying. 

"You sound like an amazing mother, priestess," Achilles complimented sincerely, his stare was distant, however, "my mother was practically a goddess. Everyone in the Moors exalted her for her fierceness and raw ability. The woods used to be called the Moors, but after her death, the name just didn't stick. She died when I was ten...the great Thetis reduced to sea foam as all fairies are after death. I can't talk to her, gods I wish I could, but I feel like she's watching me. I'm the King of the forest now, but I still feel like I'm always falling short of her expectations. Like she's frowning or snarling or something...trapped in the shape of the rippling River Xanthus..." He sighed heavily, his eyes clouded over by images inside his brain. His wings were, for the first time, completely still. Strikingly, Deidameia was at a loss for words.

"Humans call it the River Scamander," Deidameia shared the irrelevant little fact, she still was shaken by the sorrow in his voice. 

"Oh."

"I best be off," Deidameia said regretfully, she had, in fact, enjoyed her hours with Achilles. The sun was now looming over the horizon, warning all of its watchers that it was about to dip even lower into dusk. "My husband and children will worry." Not to mention the castle guard, which she had completely forgotten about until now.

"Come back sometime," Achilles requested, he had been too fast for Deidameia to register it before, but she now realized he was standing, "You're an amazing storyteller,” he said, his eyes bright with praise and interest. 

She stood, her legs sore from stillness, "Okay, I will," She said, a smile slightly forming on her face. 

"Promise?"

"I promise." And Deidameia wasn’t planning on forgetting her promise anytime soon.

✧ ✧ ✧

Fortunately, Deidameia returned to the castle grounds right before night fell. She was immediately bombarded with a collection of guards, with their shiny armor and thick necks, all wanting to claim the reason for her safety for themselves. She shoved through them, commanding the kindest of them to guide Dasia back to her stall, towards the castle’s doorway. Her gaze turned upward to the side towers, which looked like accusing fingers pointed to the sky. The columns supporting the grand entrance were dark without the sun’s light to illuminate them. Her spine rattled with anxiousness as she placed her hands on and pushed through the heavy oak doors. 

Instantly upon entering, like bees servants buzzed around their Queen, offering water, a bed, a new dress, and a washcloth. Deidameia refused all of their gifts and asked for the whereabouts of her children. As if on cue, Patroclus appeared across the hall and sprinted towards his stepmother. He leaped to embrace her, his thin arms squeezing the life out of hers. 

“Mom!” He gasped, burying his tear-streaked face into her chest, not deterred by her dress’ filthiness, “I thought-I thought you had been kidnapped or murdered or-!” 

“Gods forbid!” An old maid cried dramatically from behind the Queen. The Queen suppressed an eye roll at the old lady’s show of loyalty. 

“I am fine,” Deidameia insisted, holding Patroclus close to her, “Let’s go to my chambers. Where is Helen?” Patroclus was about to reply, but the King entered the room. The door swung into the limestone wall next to it with a loud crash. His presence swept swiftly over everyone like a wind, silencing the chatter of the servants. Patroclus warily turned to look at him.

“Deidameia,” Menoetius breathed, he was in his night attire and his hair was noticeably disheveled. He looked like a madman, ransacked by stress, not at all like a King. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, his feet shifted closer to Deidameia but his upper body held him back. 

“Menoetius,” She responded curtly. 

“You have returned,” He looked up and down at Deidameia’s figure as if she was a ghost. 

“Yes, I have. And I would like to see my daughter, have a bath, and go to sleep, thank you very much,” Deidameia demanded. And it all happened in perfect accordance with her word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late uploadadadaadadadada 
> 
> thanks for your support! yall are great!
> 
> (also for some friggin reason i added anOTher OC [you know how like scenes sometimes write themselves???] so i love Tharacus [and I might spend waaaay too much story time on him] but hes not in Song of Achilles in case you were confused)
> 
> note: idk if its the case for this fic, but its a problem for others so: don't upload The Sleeping Prince to other sites. and yall can use my OCs or story concepts[??] in other fics if you want, just ask permission before pls. im not really concerned about it tho..
> 
> pls leave kudos and comments! <333 and tell me how its poppin if you want


	7. In Which Helen Meets Tharacus and Automedon and Penelope Investigates

Deidameia visited Achilles at least once a week. Their conversations were the main source of her happiness and high self-esteem. Her social life had long ago sadly died after being wed to Menoetius. She used to gossip for hours upon hours with her fellow dancers but after she sailed away and became Queen, her “girl time” ended. As Queen, socializing was now to be used for power advancements only instead of feminine enjoyment. With Achilles, despite the age, species, and gender differences, she felt free to be herself. With her children, though she loved them, she was limited to only being a mother. With her husband, though she loved him, she was limited to only being a “good” wife. The traditional woman who liked to host his annoying friends, who never asked questions about his desires, and never ever stepped out of the thin line of the King’s will. That daily life was exhausting. 

In the woods, Achilles didn’t judge her for her crude language, her ceaseless complaining, or terrible puns. She felt like a little princess again. She was unlimited. Except, of course, she was still lying to him about being a priestess. If the winged boy ever asked about her god, she’d make up some meaningless shit about being spiritually private or something. Or simply brush off his questions by changing the conversation. She had gotten good at that. 

Privately, she wished she could scoop up Patroclus and Helen and put them in little bottles to take with her to Achilles. (The blond always did seem to be so fascinated with them) Yet, there was the looming possibility they might blow her cover, or report her to Menoetius, or, worst of all, disapprove of her relationship with the fairy. So, she kept her journeys, which she now performed with skill and stealthiness, a secret. 

Not only was their relationship an outlet for Deidameia’s stress, but it was also a healthy way for Achilles to let out his frustrations. Deidameia liked to listen to his tales of magic, the strange culture of the fairies, and about whoever had pissed him off the day before. Names were quickly tossed like rice out of his mouth, and Deidameia was able to catch a few like Chiron or Odysseus. She was slowly expanding her knowledge of the Moors, more than any of the other human spies had done. Who the Queen still had no idea existed. 

If Menoetius noticed a change in the mannerisms of his wife, he didn’t say so. He went mechanically along with his kingly duties, making decrees and placing figurines as if the Queen wasn’t clearly spending extensive amounts of time outside the castle. There wasn’t the mass panic after her first departure, there was complete acceptance. She would disappear for an entire afternoon and give no explanation to where she had been. The only clues that indicate where Deidameia had gone were the smirk on her face and the dirt on the soles of her shoes. 

Originally, Helen assumed she was spending extra time in the King’s garden, but Klaus, a kind gardener who Helen had befriended when she was a little girl, assured her Deidameia wasn’t. When Helen would ask her, Stepmother would just gesture obscurely or shrug off Helen’s persistent questions entirely. Even after Princess Helen had noticed and protested against the mysterious pattern, it had continued to defiantly reoccur for the rest of spring and into summer. 

Helen was frustrated, it was unusual for her to be denied information or her will not to be granted. (It used to be solely Menoetius who did these things, but unfortunately, his absent and rude way of oppressing her was replaced by Deidameia’s covert one) She had considered bringing it up to Patroclus, but fear of causing him anxiety stopped her from doing so. Helen kept her feelings and suspicions bottled up inside. 

What if Deidameia joined a gang of mobsters? What if Deidameia was shipping illegal potions into the kingdom? Or what if Deidameia was having an affair? Helen told herself that not knowing hurt her more than knowing ever could. It also angered Helen that her princess classes were preventing her from investigating further. 

Finally, one Sunday, the overbearing Phoinix relented and allowed her some free time. (Only after Helen promised to complete extra geography homework papers later) She gleefully ran through the hall, her slippers pattering against the smooth limestone floors, and out the front doors of the castle. Helen ignored a servant’s call and quickly shoved through the doors. 

But, she was too late. The princess had arrived just in time to get a glimpse of Dasia’s black haunches riding away over the horizon. Helen stomped her foot in frustration as her mother’s blue dress faded from sight. An idea formed in Helen’s mind. Her stepmother had taken a royal horse, so the stable boy might know where she went. The princess continued her sprint over to the stables and pulled the doors open. 

“Hello?” She called repeatedly, wandering unto the cobblestone. She hastily looked behind frightened horses and behind the rack of saddles and reins. Unfortunately, there were only steeds in the stalls, the smell unique to animals wafting off of them, and the stable boy was nowhere to be found. Helen was about to abandon her solo search party, disappointment blooming in her chest, but uncontrollable boyish laughter caught her ear. She could recognize that laughter even in sleep. 

Patroclus. 

Helen took up the chase again, made the wide jump over a humongous trough, and shoved through the barn’s back doors. Once outside, she placed a hand above her brow to shield her eyes from the sun and scanned the fenced hills behind the barn, meant for the horses to graze on. 

She saw three teenagers standing on a hill, the one in the middle being Patroclus. He held up his forearm and upon it, a dark and spotted falcon was perched, which Helen recalled being named Eumaeus. Eumaeus’ trainer, Persis, stood behind the boys, watching the pet falcon with, coincidentally, the eyes of a hawk. Persis, a man with salt and pepper hair who was much more knowledgeable in falconry, replaced Phoinix as a teacher for Patroclus’ lessons a few months ago. Falcons needed consistent and daily attention and care, and Patroclus’ busy schedule simply didn’t allow him enough time. Persis was hired to help.

Within the bird’s yellow beak was a strangled field mouse, and the boys stared at it in amazement. Helen approached curiously; she had never witnessed one of Patroclus’ falconry lessons. 

“Isn’t he just amazing?” Patroclus exclaimed as Eumaeus tilted his head upwards and swallowed the rodent whole. The boys gasped like children, clearly delighted by the bird’s show of skill. 

One of the boys glanced over at Helen and frowned. Helen realized he was a member of the Royal Guard, though he looked to be one of the youngest recruits. He had a pink birthmark on his face framed by lengthy inky hair, and his breastplate shined in the sunlight while his sword swung slightly at his hip. The other boy wore boots, a simple knee-length tunic, and dark-colored leggings. His ginger hair was in a short ponytail at the back of his head and he had a freckled button nose. They looked like quite the unusual pair next to finely dressed and handsome Patroclus, whose innocent face made him look younger than both. He might be, Helen thought. She had never seen these boys with her brother before. 

“It’s almost time for your next lesson, Patroclus,” Persis reminded the prince, reaching for Eumaeus with a gloved hand, “We’ll continue tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Patroclus said, sounding disappointed. The bird happily hopped onto Persis’ unfolded forearm, digging his talons into the leather, and Patroclus put out his glove for Persis to unclip the iron and leather lead from. 

“Thank you, Master Persis,” Patroclus chirped, and the older man nodded. He turned away and departed down the hill with Eumaeus twittering on his forearm. Helen walked up the hill past Patroclus’ trainer towards the group of three. Her hands naturally rested on her hips and her lips automatically shifted into a pout. 

“I wish I could fly,” Patroclus mused to his friends, and lay down on the grass, not caring that he might leave grass stains on his princely clothes. He stared up at the clouds, those fluffy careless things, and tucked his fingers underneath his head for neck support. He wanted to enjoy being outdoors for a little bit before his next lesson, which was art history with Helen, started.

“Yeah, that sounds like fun,” Automedon agreed and took a seat next to the prince. The stable boy then, with his back curved, reached for his toes which were across the entire length of his outstretched legs. Though he strained, his fingers were still an inch away. He eventually gave up the effort and threw his head back onto the grass next to Patroclus’.

“Tharacus, sit down, you’re blocking the sun,” Automedon complained. 

Still standing, Tharacus was staring at Princess Helen, who was slowly coming up from the bottom of the hill to join them. She was beautiful enough to cause him to have a mental breakdown. His hands shook, heat rushed to his cheeks, and his heart throbbed. The boy felt his hands sweating, despite both being covered with navy cotton gloves. He gripped the hilt of his sword and the rim of his shirt tightly, attempting to stop the shaking and slow the sweat in both. He barely heard Automedon’s request, he was too absorbed in Helen’s dark gaze. 

Originally, he acted this way around Patroclus when the prince had first begun pursuing their friendship. At first, Tharacus was so flustered near Patroclus that he reasoned it wasn’t healthy for his heart. Now that their friendship had lasted for longer than he expected, he could control and keep himself neutral. 

After all, this certain teenager was experienced. This wasn’t the first time he suppressed attraction to a boy or a girl because he knew the crush probably wasn’t mutual. Tharacus was especially encouraged with the motivation being to keep Automedon or Patroclus from having another reason to make him feel like an outsider. A freak. Yet, there were always unexpected surprises like a show of skin, sudden physical touch, or the prince’s unbelievably pretty sister walking up the hill that would throw off his cool. Tharacus swallowed. 

“Tharacus,” Automedon groaned and sat up to tug on the guard’s wool shirt. Probably due to their relationship’s rocky start, Tharacus always seized opportunities to annoy Automedon. Rare passive-aggressive opportunities, like this one, that weren’t cruel enough to push Patroclus into scolding. The younger Automedon would’ve never considered starting up a companionship with this particular member of the Royal Guard. At first, he seemed to be a bitchy bully at worst and moody at best. (And he still was) But after Patroclus’ gentle persuasion, Automedon begrudgingly accepted Tharacus as his friend a few months ago. Since then, Tharacus was a lot less lonely because the void in his cold heart was filled by Automedon’s childish joking and overall charm. And though he hadn’t verbally admitted it yet, Tharacus would agree that he’s much better off because of Automedon.

Automedon yanked the cloth and Tharacus’ stance staggered. 

“Hey,” The guard protested distractedly, without looking at the stable boy he pathetically pawed at Automedon’s grip. Automedon pulled harder, and Tharacus stumbled, finally looking at him. “Stop being stupid will you?” Tharacus spat. 

“Hello, Patroclus and friends,” Helen greeted as sweet honey, contradicting the fact that her lips were in a disapproving frown, Tharacus observed. Her eyes were too intimidating to look directly at, he realized. So, instead, he admired the delicate and detailed designs of lace that clothed her smooth neck. If his sisters were here, they would look on with jealousy. 

Her dark gaze shifted to single him out with a glare. Tharacus shamefully averted his wandering eyes realizing she must think he had been checking out her breasts.

“My eyes are up here,” She reminded sharply, but her posture sent messages of approval. Damn, women are hard to read, he thought. His blush deepened, and, rendered speechless, he faced the fields opposite to the direction of Helen to avoid further embarrassment. 

“Helen!” Patroclus practically cheered, and he jumped up to his feet and pulled his twin swiftly into a hug. Helen patted his back gracefully, resting her pointed chin on the curve of his neck. 

When Patroclus pulled away, he positioned outward his smooth hand for Automedon to pull himself up with. But instead of grabbing it, the stable boy sat dumbly with his mouth open in shock. He gaped at the beauty of Helen, practically drooling where he sat. She grinned wickedly. Tharacus, who was unable to face away from it any longer, rolled his eyes. Automedon was the most cliché version of a blubbering idiot, Tharacus thought. Truthfully, neither of them had been properly educated but Tharacus was good at hiding it. Tharacus had initially hoped that some of his impressive self-control and tact abilities would spread unto Automedon, keeping him from embarrassing himself in situations like this. Gradually, as spring turned into summer, Automedon seemed to learn when to bite his tongue and when to speak. Naturally, Tharacus attributed this to his involvement with the stable boy. Though he was too stupid to realize the guard was the source of his education, Tharacus thought Automedon would agree that he was better off because of Tharacus.

Eventually, Automedon grasped Patroclus’ hand and pulled himself up. Now all three of the boys were standing and looking at Helen with varying degrees of admiration. 

“What are you doing out here?” Helen asked politely, though she already knew Patroclus’ reason, she hoped the question would help her gain insight into the other boys’ intentions. 

“We were watching Patroclus’ falconry lessons,” Tharacus provided quickly, his arms were like stiff boards beside his torso. His face was overall weirdly red and his right hand gripped his sword’s hilt with a strange intensity, Helen noticed. He looked especially unattractive next to Patroclus, whose skin was a pure, clear, dark shade of brown. 

“Oh,” Helen said, then shrugged her shoulders as if she couldn’t care less, “Shouldn’t you be patrolling?” 

Tharacus flushed a deeper shade of red. 

“You’re right, I’ll-”

Patroclus seized Tharacus’ hand just as he was about to take off, “He is here to make sure I don’t get into trouble, right, Tharacus?” Patroclus prompted and tugged lightly on his friend’s gloved right hand. A memory invaded Tharacus’ headspace.

That hand used to be just a sack of painful flesh and blood, rendered useless by a childhood fire accident. Its red-hot molten skin was disgusting to look at and hurt to touch, affordable medicine didn’t help. Early on in his relationship with Patroclus, he was sitting alone with the handsome prince on a hill similar to this one. They were waiting on Automedon to arrive, who was currently busy with filling up the horses’ feed. 

Patroclus had planned a “unity” picnic to further their friendship. An idea Tharacus thought stupid, but he didn’t protest against his royally excused break from work. He sat on a comfy red and white blanket and occasionally ate from a basket of fruit and treats that Patroclus had stolen from the royal kitchen earlier. Tharacus was filling the silence with complaining about his right hand’s ugliness among other things. Little did Tharacus know his comments were about to change everything. Suddenly, the prince had gingerly grasped his right hand and taken it into his lap. 

“I want to try something,” Patroclus had said.

“What?” Tharacus had questioned, confused and frightened by the show of affection. His heart beat a little faster. 

“When Helen and I were kids, I could heal little things like birds’ broken wings with just a touch,” Patroclus had informed him, a soft smile on his face. “Maybe I can still do it.” 

“W-what?” Tharacus had stuttered, a little louder this time, his brain still brimming with confusion and fright.

Patroclus ignored the question, his eyebrows were drawn together in focus and he closed his eyes. His soft fingers stroked Tharacus’ hand as it rested upon his silky leggings. Tharacus silently stared at Patroclus’ delicate face, which was tight with concentration, his lips parted ever so slightly. Gods. 

Patroclus’ thumbs slowly rubbed circles into Tharacus’ skin, digging rotating trenches into his flesh. Tharacus shut his eyes tightly, trying to submerge the rising ache, trying to be strong, trying to just take it, but the prince’s touch was hurting him. 

“Patro-Dammit,” Tharacus had winced and began to yank his hand away. 

Before he did, however, the pain had suddenly ceased to exist. Like the tide of flaring nerves had gone out or like a spirit had inhaled every single source of ache in his hand. Pandora’s box had been refilled and snapped shut. He opened his eyes, his mind racing.

His hand, surrounded by the curves of Patroclus’ fingers, was smooth tan skin. Fresh and unscarred, reminding him of the face of his baby sister. He carefully lifted it from the prince’s clutches, twirling it around in the sunlight. He felt it with his other hand, rubbing his finger pads in the space between his fingers, on his knuckles, on his wrist, on his palm. It was just as he remembered from his younger years. He was healed...healed.

Patroclus smiled. 

Tharacus seized Patroclus’ collar and pulled him forward. Their noses were close and Tharacus’ pounding heart was evident in his quick breathing. 

“You-you can’t do this,” Tharacus had whispered savagely, Patroclus’ eyes filled with fear and he tried to pull away, but Tharacus was too strong, “you’re human. You can’t do this. It’s witchcraft. Don’t ever do it again. Don’t ever let anyone know you can do it, okay? I’m keeping you out of trouble. If you’re quiet, you’re safe. Some people will kill you for it. I’ve seen it. Patroclus? Patroclus, are you hearing me?”

Patroclus looked dazed, his eyes blurred with tears. “I’m-I’m sorry Tharacus.” 

“No, you don’t have to-I didn’t mean-” Tharacus had released his grip on the prince, and panic rose in his throat, lodging itself behind his tongue like a heavy stone. What if someone saw? What if he was hurting Patroclus instead of helping him? What if Patroclus never forgave him? “Thank you, I-I-”

“Boo! Booooo!” Automedon was trotting up the hill, hollering and jeering with a sardonic grin on his face, his hands were cupped around his mouth, “Booooo! Gross! Stop making out,” He laughed jokingly, a devilish smirk on his face as he ran toward the pair.

Tharacus hid his right hand, his healed hand, behind his back, and scooted far away from Patroclus. Patroclus turned his face away as Tharacus stuttered an explanation. “We weren’t-we’re not-”

“I mean he is Prince Charming, but save it for after the picnic, boys,” Automedon interrupted loudly as he raced to join them. He plopped down next to Patroclus, who refused to meet the other boy’s eyes. Automedon shoved his hand into the basket eagerly. Of course, Automedon only came for hopes of castle food, Tharacus thought. 

“Shut up,” Tharacus hissed.

“Oh, so now you tell me to shut up,” Automedon drawled, his words muffled by a mound of angel cake. “What happened to ‘where’d she go, stable boy?’” Automedon chuckled at his own joke, sending crumbs flying. 

Even Patroclus giggled softly at his lack of manners, his lips covered shamefully by a hand. Tharacus’ nose had scrunched up in repulsion. If he wasn’t currently trying to hide his magically healed hand, he would’ve tackled Automedon to the ground, pinned him down, and slammed a hand over his mouth.

“He is here to make sure I don’t get into trouble, right, Tharacus?”

Tharacus was drawn away from the memory and he forced down a scowl caused by the insulting reference. He obediently and automatically resumed his position next to Automedon. His face was on fire as he was torn between the different gazes of the enchanting pair of royals. 

“Whatever, stay if you want,” Helen shrugged nonchalantly, then put her hands back on her hips, all business-like. 

“Are you the stable boy?” She addressed Automedon standing next to Patroclus, whose face was still red as a cherry, “I want to ask you a few questions about the whereabouts of the Queen.”

“He doesn’t know,” Tharacus, now keeping his emotions in check skillfully, provided calmly. I am cool, Tharacus thought. 

Automedon, who was too tongue-tied to answer, nodded fitfully. Helen raised an eyebrow at the guard and Tharacus remembered he normally needed to be addressed directly to be allowed to speak, a rule Patroclus never enforced. “She leaves without his assistance now, anyways,” Tharacus added, dangerously choosing to ignore Helen’s authority over him, “You’re too late.”

“Did I ask you?” She demanded harshly, almost gnashing her teeth. Patroclus timidly glanced at her then the undaunted Tharacus.

“No, but I answered because the stable boy here forgot how to speak the instant you walked over,” Tharacus mockingly shrugged. He was finally able to meet her dark gaze. And he wasn’t stopping now. He was completely cool. 

“I’m not in the mood for flattery,” Helen insisted, though, her eyes sparkled a little with pride.

“I always am,” Automedon chuckled, his face was still bright but he had finally found his words. Not much of an improvement, Tharacus thought. 

“He speaks!” Helen cheered, clapping her hands together twice in mock praise, “Where has the Queen been spending her afternoons?” 

Automedon smirked because it was his default expression, and he spoke, “It’s like the guard said, I don’t know.”

“Patroclus, are all your friends this useless?” She asked, not bothering to lower her voice to a whisper in the slightest. Automedon blushed and smiled, and Tharacus grit his teeth. Patroclus frowned, looking from Automedon to Tharacus, from Tharacus to Helen, from Helen to Automedon, and back again. He was trying to read the emotions on their faces. 

The prince finally locked eyes with Helen’s poker face. 

“No, you’re my friend after all,” He decided to say, his eyes filled with innocence. Automedon laughed. Tharacus begrudgingly laughed too. 

Helen sneered and turned on her heel. She stomped and stalked back down the hill, her fists coiled tightly. Tharacus heard her mutter “boys” and “rats” among other things as she proceeded. 

“We’re also good for companionship and witty jokes!” Automedon called after her, laughter in his voice. He faced Tharacus, still smiling brightly, “At least I got to hear your stupid ass laugh before we die.”

“It’s not stupid ass-”

“It’s so stupid ass, it sounds like an unemployed mime decided to suddenly switch acting professions and had to make up his own laugh for the first time on stage-”

“Haha-” Tharacus retorted sarcastically. 

“There it is again!”

“Very funny, have you ever even been to a performance, loser?”

“You doubt my culture, young man?” 

“I’m a year older than you-”

Patroclus interrupted angrily, “You aren’t going to die!” Both of the feuding teens ended their argument and put their attention on the prince. 

“Huh?” Tharacus managed. 

“Well, I said we’re gonna die cause you got the pretty princess pissed at us, Tharacus,” Automedon explained with a grin inappropriate for the situation’s seriousness. Tharacus scowled and crossed his arms, but didn’t deny it. 

“And I’m saying I’m not going to let that happen! To either of you,” Patroclus insisted, looking up at each of the boys. Automedon was reminded at that moment how much shorter the prince was than Tharacus or himself. With his fluffy white clothing and height, he looked like a frustrated bunny rabbit hopping around at their feet, Automedon thought and nearly snickered aloud at the interesting image. 

“I will talk to Helen, and she won’t take your jobs or anything else, I promise,” Patroclus urged, and Tharacus raised an eyebrow, “I might even get her to like you guys,” Patroclus said hopefully, cocking his head adorably. Like a bunny rabbit or caged bird, Automedon thought. 

Automedon laughed and fanned himself dramatically. If he was going to die, he was going to make sure these fools could honor his grave with stupidly hilarious memories. “Oh, please do,” Automedon wished, and then placed a hand on his heart, “Gods, when she walked up that hill I was all like-” He then moved his hand downward towards his legs. 

“Stop doing that,” Tharacus hissed and shoved Automedon roughly to the side. Automedon stumbled and snickered, “That’s his sister, you pervert.” 

“Oh, you have no idea what us stable boys get up to-”

“Shut up, just shut up,” Tharacus growled and walked threateningly towards the stable boy. Shielding his face from potential blows, Automedon cowered backward and tripped.

“I’m kidding! I make weird jokes when I’m nervous!” Automedon defended himself. 

Tharacus said, “I can see that, dumbass. Patroclus should we-?” However, Patroclus had already left their company. The prince had sprinted down the hill towards the barn, of which Helen had already disappeared behind the door. Automedon straightened and brushed off his shirt. 

Without Patroclus there to scold him, Tharacus knocked his knuckles quickly into the back of the stable boy’s head.

“Ow! Tharacus!” 

✧ ✧ ✧

“-and then Calypso slapped the other mermaid across the face,” Achilles told Deidameia, “without hesitation!” He added swiftly. 

Deidameia, sitting upon a stone, laughed loudly at his tale. Achilles smiled, revealing his canines, which were curved and pointed, a fact Deidameia had grown comfortable with months ago. Additionally, the tips of his ears were a little long and pointed too, something boys and girls would be bullied for when Deidameia was younger. However, Deidameia didn’t think it was something to be ashamed of anymore.

She was completely carefree. On any given Sunday afternoon last autumn, she would've been trapped at a formal dinner setting, or maybe with her husband at a very unfortunate political meeting. She was happy to be spending this one with Achilles. 

“I’ve never met a mermaid, but they sound like an incredible group of gals,” Deidameia said honestly. 

“Yeah, they are,” Achilles admitted, he was lying on the ground, his face turned up towards the sky, his toned stomach was naked, “but they’re a species of little words, unlike humans. No offense.”

“None taken,” Deidameia said, as she crossed her ankles, “I’ve never slapped someone before…”

“Really?” Achilles asked, his eyes wide with disbelief.

The Queen gasped and loudly exclaimed, “Is that really that hard to believe?” 

Achilles sat up, his eyes were dangerously bright with an idea. “Slap me.”

“What? Right-right now?”

“Yeah, come on,” Achilles snickered, amused by the shocked face of the priestess, “Every person needs to slap someone at one point in their life. It's gonna be epic, you'll love it, I swear.”

“I’m pretty sure I'm still waiting for my one point,” Deidameia insisted, a smirk inching onto her face. 

“Now you don’t have to.” Achilles actually didn’t want to be slapped, he wanted to see what Deidameia would do. He enjoyed the slightly thoughtful and slightly surprised look on her face. It was like he had just made an offensive joke and she was debating his punishment. It was a very uniquely “mom” look.

Eventually, Deidameia decided. Chuckling, she reached over and gently placed her hand on the side of his face, with no force or bite behind it at all. It was more of a full handed tap. 

Strangely, his skin burned and boiled, like a fire had licked the cheek. He yelped and jerked back, biting back a scream. The fairy rolled over on his stomach, gritting his teeth as the pain gradually subsided because he had removed his face from her touch. 

“Achilles!” Deidameia cried and stood, rushing to his side. Her knees pounded into the ground, dirtying her dress. His cheek was inflamed with sizzling and angry-looking flesh, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I did. I shouldn’t have touched you! What did I do? Let me see! Oh my gods, oh my gods-”

He leaned upwards, the pain was now a bearable throb, and she seized his chin with the tips of her fingers. Deidameia pulled his face towards her line of sight and glanced at the large section of his skin that was still red but slowly fading back into his skin tone. A stubborn mark, a small square inch of burnt skin, remained underneath the tip of his sharp cheekbone despite the other redness' retreat. 

“Iron,” Achilles hissed, and restlessly yanked his head away from her grip, “iron burns fairies,” he muttered into the dirt. 

Deidameia glanced at her hand and an iron ring, a parting gift from her mother, adorned her middle finger next to her solid gold wedding ring. It glowed orange as if it was hot. She pulled it off with incredible speed and stood up, launching it randomly into the woods. There would be other rings, she thought. 

“It’s gone,” Deidameia told the woods, then whipped around to face the boy, “it’s gone, Achilles. I had an iron ring, but it's gone.” 

He sat up again, and she presented her hand for him to inspect. His eyes glanced at the golden ring and, filled with new energy, he jumped to his feet. Deidameia backed away from him as if her breath was toxic. Achilles’ hand reached up to touch the mark gently, but upon touching it, he grimaced and pulled his fingertips away. He robotically folded his hands behind his back. 

“Ow,” He said almost sarcastically with a sloppy grin. 

“I’m sorry, Achilles,” Deidameia told him, holding her hands below her chin, fingers intertwined like a nun during a prayer. 

Achilles snickered, “Nah, I should’ve told you.” 

Deidameia smiled hesitantly.

“I guess you got your slap,” Achilles joked, he self-consciously rubbed his arm with his hand and his emerald eyes were bright with forgiveness. 

“Very funny, Achilles,” Deidameia drawled. He laughed.

✧ ✧ ✧

“I swear it, Odysseus!” Penelope cried, waving her hands exaggeratedly, “He’s conversing with the humans. Why else would he go to the border once a week?”

“He’s probably patrolling or some shit,” Diomedes offered, dressed in red, as usual, shoving his fork into the cherry pie Penelope had placed on her kitchen table. 

The entire Council was currently inside her humble home, which was a painfully embarrassing mess; including scattered parchment, clothes, and even an unfinished tapestry spread out across the dining room floor. Flushed from shame, Penelope would’ve never invited her friends inside to see it under normal circumstances. Unfortunately, her embarrassment would have to wait. 

She had to call them here because she personally classified this situation as a Code Hydra. (The Council, credit to Odysseus, had a range of “codes'' with various levels. The first being Code Harpie, a situation of the least concern, all the way to the last level, Code Giant, a situation of world/life-threatening catastrophe. Hydra was only a few levels below Giant.) 

She had just finished explaining her suspicions relating to the activities of King Achilles. Odysseus had rudely and promptly dismissed her concerns and Diomedes was stuffing his face with forkfuls of her grandmother’s cherry pie, a dessert Penelope was planning on saving for herself. Odysseus sat at the oval-shaped kitchen table, he was leaning back in his chair tapping the table’s surface absentmindedly with his finger. 

“No, he’s not-”

Odysseus interrupted her, “He has made it well known that he hates humans, Penelope. It doesn’t make sense. You need some solid evidence before we go stalk or confront him...actually if it is true, what do you even suggest we do?” 

Penelope’s face reddened with frustration. Diomedes had finished his fifth slice of pie, now completely ignorant of the argument. Odysseus looked almost bored, and shadows danced underneath his eyes. She couldn’t believe she had kissed this man before.“I don’t know, that’s not the point! The point is if he is-”

“Then what? You don't have a plan, do you? Were you going to leave that up to me?” 

Penelope growled, her hands transformed into fists. 

“Fine, I’ll get some evidence. Get out, both of you,” The green fairy demanded. 

“Fine,” Odysseus said, raising his hands in surrender. Then, he gracefully lifted into the air and fluttered towards the exit, his transparent wings shimmering with torchlight. Diomedes obediently followed him, carrying her cherry pie and her fork in his hands.

As she watched them go, Penelope sternly said, “Diomedes.” 

Diomedes froze like an animal caught in the firelight. Then, he hung his head and shamefully flew back to her. He outstretched his armful, the cherry pie along with the utensil, towards Penelope’s open palms. She glared at him expectantly. Just before he released the objects, Diomedes spun around in the air and dashed towards the exit, maneuvering around a pile of books. 

“I’ll return the fork!” The red fairy shouted over his shoulder as he flew out the door. 

“Diomedes!” She screamed after him in frustration. Penelope sprinted to the swinging door, feeling very tempted to fly after and tackle him, but she restrained herself. After all, she had an investigation to proceed with. 

✧ ✧ ✧

“Achilles?” Penelope whispered. She had found the King in his typical tree, a grand oak close enough to the River Xanthus to hear its rushing sound. He was asleep. His eyes were closed and his muscles as relaxed as she had ever seen them. She remembered him to be a heavy sleeper, being able to sleep like a baby even though the fiercest hurricane. He looked quite like a baby now. 

His head rested against a large branch, his neck cranked so his nose was pointed upwards. His shirtless body was stretched out across the nest-like enclosure of his oak home. Spookily, his dove-like wings, twenty times the size of her body, twitched occasionally, like a dying animal clinging to life. She prayed that he might remain asleep while she investigated. Penelope wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for, she just hoped to find evidence enough to prove her theory. I will know it when I see it, she assured herself.

Penelope was dressed in the dullest shade of green she could find in her closet because she wanted to camouflage. (For as long as she could remember, the Council was color coordinated. She was green, Diomedes was red, Odyessus was blue. Penelope wasn’t sure exactly why this was, but she liked green, it reminded her of grass, trees, nature, and life itself, so she wasn’t complaining) She had even added a touch of dirt to her cheeks, and she was proud of her disguise. The green fairy turned over leaves (literally) within the tree. Nothing unusual. She inspected the roots for damage, the ground near it for a trapdoor, the tree’s trunk for secret compartments. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

The moon was high in the sky and she had found nothing. 

She felt utterly defeated. The fairy decided to check his person once more before she returned home. She fluttered as quietly as she could towards his face, and small puffs of rhythmic breath hit her wings and his eyelids fluttered. Penelope froze and held her breath, her heart pounded roughly against her chest. Thankfully, the King relaxed and remained asleep. Sweating, she glimpsed a red mark underneath his cheekbone. It was a bit blotchy and faded, but definite.

An iron burn. 

A scream bubbled in her throat. Thoroughly terrified, Penelope flew to the comfort of her home as fast as her wings could take her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeyeyyfahjsbfhsil ehugafklx;
> 
> school is busy again surprise surprise......sorry for the late upload! you guys are awesome :D
> 
> leave kudos/comments if you want! 
> 
> PS stay healthy!


	8. In Which a Friendship and an Agreement Are Formed

“I, for one, am feeling pretty bad for you.”

“Really? What caused this emotional revelation?” 

“Your arms, mostly. They’re like twigs.”

“I didn’t think you were capable of such an astute observation.” 

“Actually, I’m full of astute observations, they’re practically oozing out of my ears,” Tharacus smirked.

“First of all, gross. Second of all, inaccurate. You have plenty of empty space inside your head to accommodate them,” Helen retorted. 

“Let’s see if you can still insult me after your face is in the ground.” 

“Let’s. Although I must warn you, I’ve never tasted dirt before.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“What an astute observation, Tharacus.”

“I’m glad you think so. Can your arms work as fast as your mouth?”

“Faster,” Helen promised, a wicked grin on her face.

“Impossible,” Tharacus contradicted, smirking like a cat. 

“Quit talking and show us!” Automedon demanded loudly. 

The stable boy and the prince were sitting underneath a tree, their legs crossed like young schoolboys. Shadows and sunlight were having a mini-war on their faces, the shadows’ troops advancing across their noses or the sunlight pushing their frontline forward on their lips with each movement of the branches in the wind. Due to the oak tree’s massive size, its roots stole nutrients, sunshine, and rain, from the grass. This theft formed a circular patch of smooth dark soil underneath the tree. This particular patch of dirt was perfect for wrestling, the teenagers recently realized. The dirt was soft, to prevent injuries when falling, and surrounded by a definite line of healthy green grass. The boundary line.

The rules of wrestling were simple. You won if you either; took your opponent down, meaning holding them against the ground for ten seconds, or if you pushed them out of bounds, or if they surrendered. You lost if any of those things happened to you. 

In hindsight, those weren’t really rules, Automedon thought to himself, I probably should’ve added some restrictions, penalty points, or maybe fouls. A pinch of worry hurt in his chest because Helen’s eyes were dark, looking ready to kill, and Tharacus looked slightly more violently-inclined than normal. 

Theoretically, (that was a word Tharacus taught him to use) Tharacus would win. Automedon wasn’t being sexist, Tharacus definitely did have more combat training than Helen, Automedon thought, who still spent most of her waking hours in front of a mirror. (Though, Automedon wasn’t complaining about watching her perfect complexion shimmer or her move in that abnormally tight-fitting dress) Plus, Tharacus was older and naturally built to be better at tackling than Helen. Okay, maybe that was a bit sexist. Yet, from the stable boy’s front-row seat, Tharacus looked like he wanted to do more than just wrestle her to the ground. 

An intrusive thought entered his mind: What if he killed her? 

Automedon, though he was willing to help, knew nothing about burying a body. A corpse rather. Or would we burn it? How do you burn a corpse? Anyway, Automedon had absolutely zero ideas about what to do if the guard decided to take Helen down a little too hard. 

However, excitement conflicted with his nervousness. Childishly, he really wanted to see either or both of them get tossed, punched, or tackled. Not to the death, of course.

Helen had unofficially joined their friend group about a week after the day she had invaded their falconry training. At first, she tagged along like an officer in disguise. Like she was waiting for one of the boys to do something illegal so that she could report them. She only added huffs and frowns to their conversations, and exclusively huffs and frowns. (Along with her dream-like image, of course) 

Yet, recently, the princess was becoming more outspoken and confident, bravely challenging Tharacus’ position of masculine dominance. The stable boy admitted he didn’t know much, but he did know this: Tharacus was the oldest, acted like the smartest of them all, and pretended to have the most control over anything. It hadn’t always been like this, but as of late something had shifted in Tharacus. He wasn’t the self-conscious son of a dead man, he was the unstoppable member of the Royal Guard with an ego through the roof. This new Tharacus was a tornado, destructive and powerful. Automedon didn’t care to oppose him, and Patroclus hated conflict too much to say anything. 

Helen seemed to disagree with our passiveness. 

Every one of her witty comments, snarky remarks or blatant accusations had led up to this moment. If the fourteen-year-old princess won this battle, she claimed the position as alpha. Or, at least, an equal. Despite Patroclus’ denying it, Helen knew that the boys only endured her presence per the prince’s request and per her beauty. Her ass and face had gotten her the admission ticket, now she wanted membership status. (To put it simply, Helen was going to kick the shit out of Tharacus because she needed friends) And, hopefully, take Tharacus’ pride down quite a few pegs in the process, Helen mused. 

He was smiling, like a fool, and he inched around the circle’s circumference, trying to look intimidating. She mirrored his stalking with a grin, tiptoeing through the dirt. He was shirtless and barefoot, his baggy trousers tied tight around his hips and ankles. Tharacus' signature birthmark was turned pink underneath the direct sunlight. His midnight hair hung loose in lengthy strands surrounding his face and underneath his chin, similar to Helen’s, but her hair went beyond her shoulders. The dress she was wearing was a rarity in her royal closet. Unlike her other dresses, this one clung to her chest and hips as if it was wet. And the silky rim of her skirt ended right in the middle of her shins. Scandalous, the princess thought happily. 

“Are you waiting for something?” Tharacus asked, wiping the sweat off his forehead quickly with the back of his hand. Yes, he’d admit he was enjoying the banter with Helen. But, also he was taunting her because it would be easier to bring her down if she attacked first. It was a hot summer afternoon, and the air was thick with humidity. Honestly, he wanted the wrestling match to end as quickly as possible. 

Automedon felt awkward watching them move around and the air was heavy with tension. The stable boy glanced over at the prince for reassurance. Patroclus sat completely still, but he looked torn between hiding behind his fingertips and pulling his knees up to his chest. Patroclus didn’t want to see his friend and his sister fight for fear of what they both might do to each other. Due to his violent nature, Tharacus would take it too far after underestimating Helen, and she would “prove herself” by giving him a few cuts and bruises. That was the best ending that Patroclus could imagine. He was frozen, his gaze glued to the pair of warriors. Why was he letting this happen?

Helen, fueled by frustration and impatience, ran at Tharacus, which was, unfortunately for her, what he was hoping for. Her sprint ended quickly as he, leaning down, met her thighs with his shoulder. The guard pulled her lightweight upwards and wrapped his arms tightly around the inside of her knees. Her torso was thrown over his back like a bag of flour, her hair was a shiny waterfall dangling underneath her scalp. Helen, the breath shoved roughly out of her lungs and caught by surprise, hung limply. 

Tharacus jeered, and began to spin around, shaking his captive, “You weigh nothing, princess!”

She sucked in a gasp of breath, “Put me down!” Helen protested with a yelp, her thin body being violently jerked back, forth, up, and down. She was the duck in the dog’s mouth. Her limbs flopped wildly, and she was too disoriented to land a painful kick or hit. Tharacus laughed stupidly, now jumping and twirling around joyfully. 

Patroclus’ eyes were wide with something like horror. 

“Tharacus, that’s not how you win!” Automedon called out, feeling distressed by Patroclus’ expression. 

“I don’t know,” Tharacus yipped, clearly enjoying getting his revenge on Helen, “does she surrender yet?”

“Put me down!” She shrieked like an animal, and Tharacus’ joyful expression faltered. Someone probably heard that, but hopefully nobody important. 

The servants weren’t allowed to interrupt the princess’ and the prince’s classes without a very good, like life or death, reason. None of the servants would come to her aid, because technically, this was during class time. A few days ago, together, Patroclus and Helen formally asked Phoinix if they could participate in a royal “athletics” class. Their mother’s, the Queen’s, support finally convinced the stubborn old man. She politely argued children, even girls, needed physical education or a “recess” as she called it. Phoinix explained he doubted he could teach them anything in that field. Deidameia said simply Helen and Patroclus if they really wanted it, would find their own tutors, with her approval. 

Seeing the opportunity to spend more time with them, Patroclus instantly presented Tharacus, as a general fitness teacher, and Automedon, as a horseback riding teacher. With Automedon, she seemed particularly pleased and gladly gave her royal consent. Helen hadn’t found her tutors yet, so she shared Patroclus’. 

Yesterday, with admittedly a lot of Automedon’s help, Tharacus had planned this “lesson.” The idea was a much sweeter one in his head.

“Fine, fine! I’m putting you down,” Tharaucus said, feeling like a very shitty teacher. He leaned down and carefully placed Helen back on her feet. She inhaled sharply. 

Tharacus felt guilty when he looked at her frightened eyes and messy hair, he began to speak, “I-” 

Suddenly, she thrust her thin leg between his and grasped his shoulders, pulling him close to her face, which was a few inches below his full height. The guard flushed and choked, “Hel-”

Helen smirked, her eyes were dark, and then she launched his body with unbelievable force over her anchored leg. He tripped and smashed face-first into the dirt. The awakened lioness pounced on her victim and pressed her knees into his back, with his arms being trapped underneath his torso. Helen’s hand latched unto the back of his neck firmly shoving her prey's features farther into the dirt. Her other hand was shoved down on his shoulder, the same one he had thrown her over. Shocked and breathless, he attempted to struggle, but somehow this little girl’s force was stable and unmoveable. Tharacus was vaguely aware of Automedon counting. 

“...eight, nine, ten! You lose, Tharacus!” Automedon cheered and laughed, and Helen jumped off. Tharacus raised his head and inhaled deeply, crumbs of dirt littering his face and clothes. He pulled his arms forward and pushed himself up. 

“Whose side are you on, douchebag?” Tharacus spat, as he got to his feet. The guard’s chest hurt, partly because of the physical pain caused by Helen and partly because of the crippling embarrassment caused by the defeat. His pride had taken a beating.

Automedon shrugged. 

Helen rushed over to Patroclus, who looked very stunned and his eyes still fixed on where the scene had just occurred. The princess dipped over and moved her mouth next to his ear. 

“This is why I get the lions, Patroclus.”

The trance was broken. His eyes adjusted and he looked up at her. 

“I still think flowers are more worthy of ownership,” Patroclus whispered, a faint smile on his smooth lips. Helen positively beamed. So, after six years, he does remember our little dividing of the world, she thought happily. After all, what was a brothership if he forgot?

“-you should’ve clarified that-”

“The bottom line is you didn’t win according to the rules!” Automedon protested, he had since moved over to stand next to Tharacus. Tharacus looked perfectly pissed, blushing from embarrassment with his arms crossed. Automedon was attempting to ease his nerves with reason and logic, two of Tharacus’ supposedly favorite weapons. This time, however, Tharacus was deaf to his friend’s words. 

“Whatever, you’re supposed to have my back.”

“I’m supposed to have my friends’ back. And Helen is my friend and I, as the Rule Maker, declare her the fair winner.” 

Helen stormed over towards Tharacus, her jaw tight with tension. The guard didn’t flinch, he simply looked down at her irritability. Timidly, Automedon scooted away from the pair. Then, she unexpectedly stuck out her tiny hand. Tharacus hesitantly took it. 

They shook promptly and firmly. 

“I’ll forward to your lessons, Master,” Helen said swiftly. 

Tharacus raised an eyebrow and dropped her hand, “So, I’m not useless anymore?” 

“Nope,” Helen told him, popping the p, “no hard feelings?”

“If you teach me where you learned that,” Tharacus answered, “then no. No hard feelings.”

“And you,” Helen swiftly turned to Automedon, who recoiled at her voice, “am I your friend? You said so earlier.”

“Yes-yes?” Automedon glanced back and forth from Tharacus to Helen, “what’s the right answer here?” His voice was laced with uncertainty. 

“Yes, obviously,” Patroclus giggled, walking up to his friends. They all grinned sheepishly at him. His eyes were sparkling. The prince had waited many days for Tharacus’ or Automedon’s confession of affection toward Helen, and he felt like something great had finally been achieved. 

“Yes,” Tharacus and Automedon said simultaneously, then eyed each other awkwardly. 

“Then everything is in order,” Helen proclaimed boldly, “we’re a group of friends. And we’re going to be the best friends the world has ever seen!” The princess cried, and she moonwalked back and threw her hands up into the sky. Her smile was moonshine and her posture was with the perfection of an ancient sculpture, undaunted and elegant. She paused, waiting for the effect of her declaration to linger and settle.

Automedon stared, along with the others, transfixed by the splash potion of her voice and her stance. He managed to utter, “I’m not sure that’s how it works-” 

“Of course, that’s how it works,” Tharacus interrupted, averting his eyes from Helen’s, “and the rest of the world is gonna have to deal with it.”

Helen lowered her hands to her hips, “Hell yeah.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Deidameia used to value first impressions greatly. She used to think these moments solely defined that person. Now, while her thinking that initial meetings revealed much about a person was unchanged, she didn’t anymore think first impressions were the definition of a person. Sure, Achilles was impulsive, hated humans, and aggressive, but he was also kind. Loyal and trustworthy. He was her best friend. The kind of amazing best friend that omitted the dull small talk of regular friends and replaced it with intimacy. In fact, they talked so often of personal anecdotes that she knew nothing “plain” or "basic" about Achilles. 

Deidameia asked, “What’s your favorite color?”

She was slightly curious, after all, she didn’t know the answer, but she also was stalling. Truly, Deidameia had a special hidden secret to tell him. A personal telling of pride, joy, and great feminine worth that was filling her thoughts and swirling in her belly. She wanted to tell Achilles, her best friend. She wanted to see the happiness alight his face and she wanted to hear him proclaim that he was delighted for her. Yet, the Queen was so nervous about it she restored to small talk instead. 

Achilles hummed, then he spoke, “Probably yellow, I haven’t really thought about it. Yours?”

As was his common, the fairy was lying down on his back, his toned stomach revealed and his solid arms folded behind his head. His wings looked uncomfortably squished underneath his back, but his eyes were closed as if he was relaxed. She supposed he was because Achilles had grown comfortable with the other’s company. She had too. Despite the anxiousness, Deidameia felt mostly content, and she was perched on her usual rock with her shimmering dress flowing down the sides. 

“Gold,” Deidameia answered lightly.

“I thought priests were supposed to resent vanity,” Achilles mumbled, almost sounding accusatory, but Deidameia had long since been able to detect his sarcasm. 

Deidameia gasped dramatically, “Gold is not a vain color. It's the color of a humble earthly substance-”

“And the color of the gods’ robes in our tales and, if I’m not mistaken, the substance you mention is of high price in your lands,” He opened one eye to peek at her, his voice drenched with humor.

“I wouldn’t know, I am not vain nor materialistic.”

“Throwing a large word at the less educated are you?”

She laughed, “I suppose I am.” 

There was a pause. A comfortable pause.

“Your laughter is different,” He said and closed his eyes again. His emerald eyes had been watching the shifting emotions visible on her features with interest.

She frowned, “How do you mean?” 

It seemed that in the past months, as she learned more about Achilles, she also learned more about herself. The little second nature things she had forgotten and submitted into her subconscious. Or offhand traits she never even realized she possessed. 

The sides of his lips curled up, “It’s natural. Not...forced anymore, Deidameia.”

She let his statement settle in the air for a moment.

Then, Deidameia looked up into the trees and took a breath before responding, “I used to practice it in a mirror,” Her chest hurt from shame and remembrance of self-loathing, “I was a young, anxious, and insecure girl then. I was the furthest thing from vain. I felt unworthy like I needed a pretty laugh or else I wouldn’t be loved. Do you know what I mean?”

“You know I do-”

“Beautiful statement, really, I’m sure your subjects honor your humility!” A new voice called out mockingly. 

The bubble of intimate talk burst suddenly. Deidameia and Achilles jumped at the sound, someone besides the birds or the wind had imposed uninvited onto their company. Achilles’ mouth formed a snarl and he leaped onto his feet. Deidameia stood up beside him, her heart pounding and her hands vibrating. The boy’s eyes focused on the wood in front of them, wide with animalistic perception. 

“Show yourself!” Achilles shouted.

Reluctantly, three small creatures emerged from behind a set of trees. The first one was red, another blue, and the last green, they all were only a foot tall. They staggeringly floated in the air as they approached, flashes of nearly invisible wings fluttered on their backs. Various degrees of disgust twisted their features. 

“There goes our element of surprise, Diomedes,” The green one hissed loudly, she sounded female.

The red one growled back, “We were listening for too long.”

“What do you want?” Achilles asked, his hands curled into fists and he took a step forward. Clearly, he recognized these creatures and disliked them greatly. Deidameia anxiously touched the younger boy’s shoulder as a warning, and his violent gaze shot to hers. She silently shook her head. Achilles pulled his shoulder away from the older woman’s grasp.

The three creatures hovered in the air, observing them up and down with judgemental looks on their tiny faces. 

“Achilles, why are you here with the Queen of the human kingdom?” The blue one questioned assertively but calmly. 

Deidameia stared into his small but bright cyan eyes. The cold breath of Death brushed against her neck. Her organs dropped below sea level. She was frozen in time. This fairy, who or whatever he is, called her human. He called her Queen. He knew who she was. 

Achilles laughed dryly.

Thankfully, Achilles spoke before Deidameia could, “She not the Queen. Leave us, Odysseus. That’s a command, by the way,” He added harshly, his stance was currently a fighting one.

“You were right, lovely Penelope. Oh, look at the pair of royals,” Odysseus told his friends, his voice was full and deep despite his size and sufficient with sardonic humor, “the pair of traitors and liars. Gods, I prefer democracy. Achilles, please, allow the Council to discuss matters of importance with your female friend.”

Achilles muttered something foul, then insisted roughly, “She’s a common priestess, not a Queen, leave with your nonsense.”

“You can’t lie to us,” Penelope told him, her voice as mean as he had ever heard it, her fire shook Achilles briefly, “Look at her dress! No peasant can afford that,” Deidameia covered her chest with her hands shamefully as Penelope fluttered towards her, pointing an accusing finger at the inches of fabric, “Plus, her horse literally is dressed with the castle’s emblem.” 

Achilles moved defensively between the tiny fairy and his friend, his giant wingspan shielded Deidameia from their sight. He glared at Penelope and asked, “How can you be sure? We don’t know their culture or economic system.” 

The statement’s ending rose with the slightest almost undetectable doubt, but Odysseus caught it. Achilles wasn’t lying to cover his hidden agenda, Odysseus realized, he was truly confused. The human’s features were morphed with fear as she glanced over the wings to look between Achilles and the Council. The Queen was the one with the secret. Odysseus suddenly understood that the Queen hadn’t informed him of her profession, their relationship was a falsehood of friendship, not a conspiracy. This is why you double-check things, the blue fairy scolded himself, now he needed to edit his plans. 

Penelope was yelling now, “This isn’t the first time we’ve had to do your job for you! After Thetis passed,” -Achilles’ eyes were clouded with pain, but Penelope didn’t stop- “we met with the human’s Queen and exchanged magic for the Moors’ protection. She died before she could enact a law to ensure magical creatures’ safety. But it seems you’ve been consulting with the dead woman’s replacement behind our backs! Explain yourself! Gods, I knew it! I knew it!” Penelope, for once, wasn't bothered by Achilles’ size, she shouted the final phrase over and over in his face.

“Penelope!” Odysseus shouted. 

Penelope jerked her head toward him, “What!?” 

The King calmly folded his wings, and slowly lifted his chin to the woman behind him, “Did you lie to me about being the Queen, Deidameia?” He soberly asked, his voice was monotone and ghost-quiet.

Time was nonexistent. She was cold and hot, and her eyeballs seemed to melt inside her skull. The Queen was afraid of his response but she muttered a faint, “Yes,” as she stared into the abyss of green. He looked away and removed himself from the others’ presence. The boy found a nearby tree to casually lean against.

From his post, he said, “Make your propositions, Council. As you can tell, I was stupidly ignorant of her true identity,” he wasn’t looking at Deidameia anymore, his gaze was locked on the Council. 

“But, please, allow me to observe,” Achilles added, crossing his arms. 

“Of course, King Achilles,” Odysseus said, and he quickly flew to Penelope to seize her arm. She was dumbfounded and hovering aimlessly in the air so he easily dragged the green fairy behind him. She stuttered protests with questions and defensive statements.

“Ow! Odysseus! Let go! I-I thought-” 

Odysseus glared at her delicate features, “Stop it, Penelope. You and Diomedes need to let me do the talking, alright?”

Penelope glared, but finally, her snarl softened.

“Fine, fine, whatever,” She muttered and pulled her wrist away. Penelope obediently resumed her position next to Diomedes, who looked thoroughly confused. He shot her a baffled glance, but Penelope ignored him and put her hands on her hips. 

“Your Majesty,” Odysseus began, as he hovered in the air in front of Deidameia, who was staring at Achilles in shock, “Excuse me, Your Majesty?” 

The Queen finally looked at him, and folded her hands below her hips, “Yes?”

“Is the Council correct to assume your relationship was void of any kind of foul plotting, but for pleasure only?”

“We-we were just friends. I promise, Achilles” -she pleadingly glanced at him, but he was unresponsive- “didn’t know I was the Queen.” 

Deidameia realized being interrogated by a very small flying man was the strangest and most nerve-wracking part of her career so far. 

“So, Penelope’s theory, which is as follows; Achilles was associating himself with a human spy, trading our critical information, information which could be used for advancements in war, for a relationship with him or her, and he was subject to abuse when he didn’t comply, is false according to you?” Odysseus asked formally. And each spectator reacted differently to his monologue, Penelope grimaced, Diomedes frowned, Achilles inhaled briefly, and Deidameia cocked her head and furrowed her brow. She wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

“Um, yes. I am not a spy, and we would only complain or talk about unimportant things,” Deidameia’s heart was sprinting through the trees, “and I didn’t abuse him. What-Why was that even a part of this stupid theory?” She was an innocent on trial for crimes she didn’t commit. The audacity to accuse her of these things was undoubtedly offensive, and her stomach twisted with frustration. 

Penelope, whose propositions were currently being torn to pieces, shrieked, “There was an iron bur-”

Odysseus raised his hand to quiet her, and surprisingly she shut her mouth, “Penelope, dressed in green here, apparently saw wounds on the King’s body. But your testimony, along with additional evidence, contradicts everything in her theory. Now that things are cleared up, we want to make peace with you and reach an agreement,” The blue fairy stated grandly, “My name is Odysseus, and this is Penelope and Diomedes," -he pointed to each of them as he spoke- "We form the Council of Fairies, the democratic leaders of the Moors.” 

“You already know who I am,” Deidameia responded bluntly, faint recognition rose up in her mind with his introductions, “What kind of agreement are you talking about?” She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. The Queen was trying to embody her political role and power with the mannerisms of a monarch. Odysseus smiled.

“We have a problem. Your humans have continually infiltrated our borders and each time you have stolen property and committed some acts of violence against our people. If we don’t take action now to end this, the conflict might further into war. I am not saying this to threaten you, I am saying this to imply the importance of the situation,” Odysseus clarified. 

“I wasn’t aware this was happening,” Deidameia whispered. Was it a lie? Surely the blue creature was trying to confuse or manipulate her. Her mind flashed back to Achilles attacking her simply because she was human. Was it true?

If it was, Achilles never mentioned it in detail to her. She glanced at him again, but he wasn't looking at her.

“I find that hard to believe, considering your rank and Achilles’ alleged complaining. But, fine, let’s collectively believe you didn’t know. It hardly matters anyway, consider this an enlightenment. With a decree, you can put a stop to the invasions and save your people a load of trouble and death,” Odysseus finished, maintaining his formal tone the entire time.

The Queen’s expression was forcibly neutral, almost unimpressed, and she asked, “What is in it for me?”

Odysseus laughed, “Not going to war,” He responded. It was perhaps the simplest answer he had given in the past lifetime.

“Penelope said you offered magic to the previous Queen. What did she mean by that?” Deidameia demanded, a cruel streak rising up in her, licking at her blood like a fire. This creature was making rash demands while pretending to want peace. He was a fool if he thought she was leaving this “agreement” with less than she brought. 

Penelope and Diomedes muttered curses. 

“Well, have you noticed the princess and prince are different from other children? Can you tell that they are beautiful beyond understanding, she has otherworldly cunningness, and he has a heart of gold? Your favorite color?” Odysseus smirked, then continued with sweeping hand motions, “That was our doing. We blessed them with magical gifts while they were in the womb. It was the fairest trade of all.” Deidameia’s gaze darkened.

“They’re not my children” -It was agony to say so, but anger streaked her mouth and it would not be stopped- “Their mother is dead. I am pregnant, so give my child your gifts and I’ll write the law. But only after I give birth, I know how Philomela died during childbirth and I will not share her fate,” Deidameia spoke with elegance and underlying rage. 

Diomedes piped up, “Hey, lady, her death was not our fault-”

“I don’t care,” The Queen interrupted him, her glare sweeping over the red fairy like the breath of a dragon. “Have we reached an agreement?” Deidameia spat out the last word with unmasked malice.

Odysseus weakly smiled, “I think we have.”

Suspicion rose in her stomach.

“Swear it. Swear on the River Xanthus that the Council will bless my child,” Deidameia pressured strongly, shoving out her hand to meet Odysseus’. Nervousness made the man’s eyes brighter, Deidameia decided, as he reached out a teeny hand.

Odysseus was so close to resolving the problem diplomatically, he needed to close the deal. Despite the cost of their magic and nearly their lives, the final stretch would be worth it in the end for everyone. The blue fairy could feel the eyes of his friends on his back. If he swore, Penelope, Diomedes, and himself were bound to the human Queen until the bargain was fulfilled. The benefit was too great, he had to.

This was the only way for peace.

He shook her hand.

“I swear it,” He uttered reluctantly, and an invisible tidal wave of soul-bonding magic rushed through him and his companions. Odysseus dropped his hand and his wings fluttered frantically to regain his balance. Deidameia grinned with delight. Praise the gods, she would come out on top after all. Her left hand strayed upward from her lap to hold her slightly bulging stomach. Her fingers gently pressed into her flesh. A miracle child was resting in her belly. An heir to the throne of power, grace, and beauty.

The Queen grinned wickedly, and beads of cold sweat formed on Achilles’ neck. 

Deidameia glanced at her friend’s dismissal expression, and finally, his eyes met hers, “I was going to tell you,” She silently mouthed. 

Achilles’ eyes burned with tears and his head swam. She said, "We only talked about unimportant things." Was he the dirt she scrapped off her boats upon arriving at the woods? Was he that meaningless to her? Was he nothing?

His heart pounded. He had gained a lot of information in the course of that conversation, but he learned only one enduring truth: humans, no matter what they seem like, are all selfish liars filled with a hunger for power. He snarled at the woman and took off into flight, his wings thirsty for gulps of wind as they always were. The feathers lifted him easily, as he always believed they would. Forget all the rest of them, Achilles thought, for the rest of my fucking life I will only trust myself. 

“I must be off, I’ll take care of your little invasion problem,” Deidameia assured the Council, pushing down her feelings of betrayal, and turned away. She walked gracefully until she was out of Odssyeus’ sight, then she sprinted through the trees to Dasia. She gritted her teeth against the waterfall of tears threatening to burst. Her heart was a heavy, useless stone.

✧ ✧ ✧

Deidameia knocked on her husband’s office door, “Menoetius?” She called out. 

There was no answer, so she knocked again, harder this time. Was he ignoring her? Usually, he answered quickly. She let out a harsh huff of frustration, feeling horribly impatient. 

“Menoetius, I can see the light through the cracks of the door,” The Queen stated boldly, loudly knocking once more for good measure. 

Finally, the door unlocked and swung back and a short man appeared behind it. He was unattractive, for he had sharp exaggerated features with thin twisting lips. His face was a child’s pencil drawing. She recognized the man, but could not put a name to the troublemaker's smirk. Deidameia frowned at him and he moved out of the doorway to the side.

“Menoetius, I need to talk to you,” She said confidently, stomping into the room, “alone please,” She added, glancing at the short stranger.

The King was a quiet rock leaning against a huge wooden table in the center of the room. A colorful assortment of papers and items decorated the tabletop, hidden by the King’s massive figure. His static back and a long trail of an expensive robe faced her. His hands, tender but hurt-inducing hands, were placed on either side of his torso. 

Menoetius, after a long pause, finally spoke, “Leave us, Jaq,” and the other man obeyed, shutting the door behind him. 

After the door closed, “What do you need?” Menoetius urged his voice sounding strained. He hadn’t turned to look at his wife, his survey was docked to the creative project in front of him. The maps, the charts, and his beloved figurines endlessly captured his attention. Deidameia approached cautiously, stealing glances over his shoulder at the table’s top. She had never looked at it closely before.

“Um, I heard that you made some tactical,” She shook her head once, then bit her lip, “I guess, decisions without me? I just, um,” -she could barely form words around him and he couldn’t look at her. After her first runaway, this lack of communication was their normal waking hours. However, at night they took advantage of physical pleasures that came with marriage. A week ago, Menoetius seemed really happy that her womb had finally conceived. Yet, he still couldn’t look at her. Was he ashamed? Did he even love her anymore?- “are you sending spies into the woods? Are you planning on a war?” Deidameia forced out the last question with a choking noise. 

“Who told you that?” He demanded, spitting out the wad of words unto the table. 

The tension in Deidameia’s bones worsened, and she inhaled, “It doesn’t matter-”

“It does,” Menoetius cut her off, “Who?”

“I said-”

The King faced his curious wife, a dark shadow loomed over his face, and his voice was thunder, “Who?” 

She flinched, her instincts demanding that she flee from the monstrous countenance. Thousands of spiders crawled up and down her spine and she took a careful step back. But just one. 

“I learned it myself,” Deidameia promised, her hands were tight bundles of flesh in her lap. Her unborn baby was completely motionless within her body. The stone disease of her heart had infected her whole body.

“You learned a lie,” Menoetius hissed, and then jerked his face and shoulders back to the tabletop, “don’t speak of it to me again, or to anyone else. Leave me, I wish to complete my kingly duties,” He waved her off with a hand. He sounded so fucking noble.

Her soul sank, weighed down by the feeling of worthlessness. She turned away from her lover, like a lifeless puppet being dragged away by strings. The Queen retreated from the room, vaguely aware that she should shut the door behind her. She did.

She didn’t even care that his defensiveness practically proved Odysseus’ words. Her will power was torn to shreds, just as her hair was in the wind. There was no possibility she could fulfill her end of the bargain, her husband was a force too powerful to be reckoned with. He was a locked box of secrets, full of covered dirty and hidden disgusting things. Menoetius would never allow her to make a decree, even now, she barely had enough power to command Patroclus’ and Helen’s studies. She was nameless. 

The beast was obsessed with that room, and it wasn’t her place to ask why, to interrupt him, or even to speak at all. She stumbled down the hallway, not sure where to go. Something despicable was happening underneath her motherly nose and she wasn’t permitted to know what it was. She was a factory for children, crafted to be silent and compliant. At that moment, she hated him, she hated Odysseus, and she hated herself. 

“Queen Deidameia?” A voice called out to her. Deidameia’s chin turned toward the pitchy noise. 

The short man, named Jaq, watched her from his position beside the King’s door. He stood protectively and close to the slab of wood...had he been eavesdropping? She growled inwardly. He smiled sympathetically at Her Majesty. Deidameia turned to face him, her eyes narrowed to hold back floods of tears.

“I wouldn’t go in there,” The Queen spoke softly, “He’s upset.”

He responded how she wouldn’t expect, “Are you, Your Highness?”

“No,” She said too quickly, "thank you," and continued her walk, the edges of her skirts a dizzy blur. 

Jaq watched as she left, practically running away from him, though he didn’t blame her for it. He was a heinous and ugly sight compared to the flower of her face and figure. Those rosy cheeks, bluebonnet and lilac eyes, and her smooth wheat-colored hair outshone all the other ladies he had seen in a lifetime. The delicate folds of her dress shifted around her ankles like petals and her breasts flourished like rosebuds. He gazed hungrily, swallowing as many sights and images of the Queen as he could before she was gone. Dreadfully, the lacy whiteness of her back disappeared around a limestone corner. He let out a depressing breath. 

It took his romance-void intellect ages to figure out the truth, but when it came, it came with a flood of emotion and realization. All of his lustful longing, his days of loneliness and depression, the fact that his heart was too cold to accept the measly lemons life had given him at birth, had a single hidden reason: He was in love with Deidameia. Daily, it made everything in his social and work life so difficult to proceed with. He could not lengthen his string of one night stands without feeling guilt, he could not spy without feeling like a liar, he could not submit to the King’s will without feeling shame, (after all that bastard was neglecting and abusing a prize among women. His yelling from seconds ago proved it.) 

He couldn’t even fantasize about a nameless wife as he used to do, for in his dreams she always had a name, and she always looked like Deidameia. And he knew that he could not have that woman. Nor did she want him. 

Fuck it, he cursed mentally.

“I will make her mine,” Jaq whispered, still staring at the section of limestone where she was standing. His mother always quoted, "All good things come to those who wait." And he would wait centuries to kiss those peachy lips. After all, he had all he needed: his brain and a stubborn will power to seize what he wanted. 

“Jaq, come look at this,” Menoetius yelled from inside the door. Jaq, the obedient dog, entered the war room at his master’s call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bruh 
> 
> kinda long wait? sorry bout that. i hope yall are healthy
> 
> also im trying to get to Achilles x Patroclus moments, but honestly, a lot of "plot" things need to happen before that. so it might be a few chapters.....
> 
> thanks for reading!!! leave kudos/comments :D


	9. In Which Deidameia Tells

Hands like chunks of meat, with long coarse fingernails, squished the sides of her heart. The lumpy fingers wrapped around the organ and fingertips dug deeply into the reddened flesh. And pulled. The ripping and yanking of her heart was undeniable agony as the organ barely maintained its position with strings of blood and flesh embedded into her bones. This pain was enduring and thriving within Deidameia’s chest for weeks and weeks and weeks without a glimpse of an ending. It was repetitive and daily. 

The pain was guilt.

There was no way Deidameia could write the decree the Council tasked her to create. The one they had begged her to construct for peace. She couldn’t avoid a hellish war, as they said because Menoetius seemed set on creating one.

She was terrified to bring up the “spies” again to her husband. Even that word sounded foolish now, and her whole life in the woods sounded like a children’s fantasy lost by adulthood or a fabulous dream whisked away into deep subconscious upon awakening. Deidameia was wide awake now, and Menoetius would never validate her position as Queen enough to give her the ink and paper to craft and sign the decree. Hell, he would never even hear her propose such an outlandish and groundless decree. She always knew her husband to be a conqueror, refusal or conflicting opinions were his strangers. Surely, if she dared herself enough to openly speak against him, another strike across the face was coming. 

Deidameia was afraid. And she was trapped, ropes restrained her arms so tightly that her flesh soaked out on the top and bottom of the wrappings. She wasn’t going to fulfill her bargain. To him, to her superior, the Moors were a nasty secret to be shoved under the rug. Deidameia had just about given up the effort, she had marital problems to distract her anyway. 

Her husband had become a ghost, speechless and dead-eyed, at least towards her. His only moments of glee were spent inside the war strategy room. The Queen wasn’t talking to or looking at him, neither, no matter how far she got along in her pregnancy. In fact, many days she stayed in her bed chambers, all alone and depressed. Who knew a life growing inside of you would be so painful? And tiring? And hunger-inducing? 

The window was a bright and colorful patch of the outdoors, and it hung like the moon on her wall. She gazed into the light as she sat on the edge of her fluffy bed, kneading the portion of the skirt in her lap with her hands, trying to dismiss her guilt and the throbbing sensation coming from within her. Her belly had rounded out in the past weeks, now she looked and felt like a beached whale. Huge and breathless. She weighed a million extra pounds and waddled like a duck everywhere she went. Plus, not a minute went by that Deidameia didn’t crave to be stuffed with chocolate until it oozed out of her eyes. 

Pregnancy was truly the gods’ gift to women. 

Deidameia rubbed her eyes with the back of her left hand. When she lifted her hand, the skin was dampened with tears. She recalled that last night she had cried in her empty bed until her tear ducts had nothing left to give. The Queen had that dream again. The one about a golden boy with wings.

...with broken feathers torn to shreds. He was falling down, down, down and she was trying to seize the collar of his tunic, but he was just out of reach. He was too far away, his eyes were wide vibrant green pools of fear. Her fingers were wide and her hand impossibly stretched out toward him, yet she couldn’t catch Achilles. 

This vision was her worst and most predominant torment of the past weeks.

She covered her face with her hands. She left him and hadn’t even given him a “why.” She was a terrible, miserable, rotten friend. Deidameia knew she needed to apologize, but matters of how and when conflicted with her decision. More than that, she hoped to make things right. She needed to, after all, she had loved him like her own child. The Queen didn’t have a mapped-out plan as the King did, she only had her desperate ambition…

A hard and quick knock on the door interrupted her dreary thoughts.

Thinking it was a maid, “Come in,” She breathed her response and dropped her hands to crane her neck towards the door. 

The familiar face of Jaq, her husband’s advisor of sorts, shoved its way through the entrance. Deidameia frowned. 

Well, she had lied to herself. Truthfully, she wasn’t always alone. Jaq was the apparition stalking the doorways and hallways she happened to be passing through. They would chat briefly, or maybe trade smiles, his was wicked and hers was hesitant. Despite his kindness, something about his appearance made her reluctant to further their acquaintance. He looked like a load of mischief. Like a schoolboy who would chuck frogs at trees only to watch them die in a splatter of green guts. Little Deidameia disliked such boys. 

She supposed that was shallow of her to categorize him as such before truly being knowledgeable about him, though. 

“Queen Deidameia,” He greeted and stood beside the door like a soldier at attention. 

“Jaq?” She said, but it came out as a question. She stood also, though it took great effort, and walked around her bed to properly face him. Suddenly, Deidameia was embarrassed, for she was dressed scandalously in her sleeping silks. 

“I came to check on you,” Jaq said, quickly and shamelessly looking her up and down, “you haven’t left your room in a while,” he added for an explanation, then placed his gaze on the far wall. 

Deidameia deepened her frown, and glowered at the shorter person, “So, Menoetius is finally concerned about me?” Admittedly, she was a little pleased he had noticed her absence.

“No, I came without his orders,” Jaq said, then frowned, “Are you waiting for him?”

She looked at Jaq, but his eyes were elsewhere. Deidameia was slightly baffled and uncomfortable because of his act of kindness, and took her a moment to recover before speaking shortly, “Maybe a little.” 

The Queen’s disappointment was evident in her voice, which creaked honesty. It was so soft. So sweet. Jaq’s stomach twisted into tight knots and his skin boiled. How could this incredible woman, with so much love, be married to a man like that? He asked himself. It wasn’t fair, nor right. 

“No offense, but why, Your Highness? It’s been weeks since he has visited, or even acknowledged you. Anyone else’s patience would’ve been gone by now.” There was a defiant glint in his eyes that made her mouth dry. 

“It isn’t proper for you to be watching me,” Deidameia accusatively said, wrapping her arms around her chest in a self-hug. 

Jaq smirked. “Are you saying that? Or the Queen in you?” 

Deidameia narrowed her eyes. “The Queen and I are one and the same.” 

“I meant no offense-”

“You already said that,” The Queen reminded him in her most authoritative voice, “You’ve checked up on me. I’m still breathing,” she hissed, “so your mission is complete. Are you done?” He was unphased by the harshness of her voice. In fact, it seemed to strengthen himself and Jaq fixed his gaze on hers. 

“I want to bid you well and comfort you, honestly. Pregnancy is a challenge unknown to me, but my presence, I hope, will ease your pain,” Jaq answered, smiling in that wicked way of his again, “Are you surprised by my care?” 

Deidameia answered his first question, “I wait for Menoetius because I expect his care as my husband. Yours,” She continued, masking her ache with monotone, “however, is unexpected.”

“Unexpected gifts are the best,” He promised, approaching her cautiously, one step at a time. 

She gritted her teeth and stood her ground, eyeing him nervously. “Are you-Is your companionship a gift?” 

“Please, my Queen, don’t torture yourself by waiting for him any longer,” Jaq told her softly, now within a few feet of her intimate space, “make him apologize to you. Make him earn your patience,” He said like a promise. Like a trigger. 

Her heart stopped and her sweat cooled. “I have to go,” She uttered and maneuvered around the shorter person. Jaq, the stranger in her bedroom, cocked an eyebrow and watched her stumble toward the door. She shoved through it and sprinted down the hall, the best she could with her pregnant belly. 

Jaq called after her and rushed to stand awkwardly in the doorway. “Uh, m’lady?” 

Dammit, he cursed internally. 

Deidameia fled through the hallways, clutching her stomach with one hand and latching onto the wall with her other hand. 

✧ ✧ ✧

The edge of the Moors was beautiful with mystery, just as she had remembered. The River Scamander flowed easily. Its waters were dark from the lack of sunlight. Deidameia tiptoed across it, placing her slippers on each grey stone with elegance. On the other side, she lifted her hands to her lips. 

“Achilles!” She cried, her voice echoing through the trees. “Achilles, please,” She said again. She brought up her skirt and marched into the trees. Today, it was dark, and the mood of the forest was daunting and sad. It filled her with anxiety, but the drive to relieve herself of the guilt’s grasp was more powerful. She needed to talk to him. She needed to make him see reason. She needed his friendship back.

After all, it was he who tried to kill her first. She giggled fondly at the memory. 

“Achilles!” She called out, again, with more confidence this time. She pushed herself up and over a twisted tree branch, clutching her pregnant belly as she did so. Once she found footing on the other side, the winged boy had landed in front of her.

He was fearsome. His golden hair tangled and messy. His eyes, like emeralds, were green blades digging into her soul. All of Achilles was shadowed by his white wings, brawny and thunderous. Like a dove’s, the same as she remembered. In their months apart, only the sharpness of his jaw and eyes had changed. She took this consistency as comfort. 

“Achilles,” She gasped. 

“Deidameia,” He growled. This, she noticed, had changed too. His voice used to be soft and tender. Now, it was threatening. 

She approached cautiously.

“Don’t take another step, human,” He commanded with a hiss and threw his arms out. In his palms were identical balls of neon fire. 

“Achilles, it’s me,” The Queen tried desperately. She withered away from him, stumbling backward, clutching her belly. He did not move. “I came to--”

“I don’t care,” Achilles insisted. “Leave, now.” 

“No, not without--”

“I don’t care!” He screamed the fires rose in response, the heat pouring from them in waves. “The only reason I don’t kill you where you stand is for your child.”

The truth of his words was pure. And it hurt. So much. The breath was pushed out of her lungs. With her eyes wide, she inched away. She could not form words. She was afraid. Who...what had he become?

“I am the protector of the Moors,” Achilles said as if he heard her thoughts, “And you will leave or face my wrath.” His eyes glowed. Fire in them. His canines, like daggers, were bared. 

At this, she turned away. She turned away and ran. Through the underbrush and branches, over the River, across the field. She had always been so good at running. 

She launched herself on to her stallion and spurred her on. It began to rain, and the drops beat against her face. It felt good.

At least, she had got what she came for, she thought. Her guilt was resolved. She felt no pity for the creature, the protector of the Moors, who Achilles had become. She owed him nothing.

Nothing at all. 

✧ ✧ ✧

Jaq returned to the castle, dripping with rainwater. The King of Moors did not accept her, either, he had discovered. That bastard child. Unaware of an angel when he found one. With his hands of fire. The magic that nearly killed Jaq on more than one occasion. The winged beast was done with Deidameia. Little did he know that this was the only thing keeping him alive. Jaq’s respect for Deidameia, that is. Without Deidameia’s friendship, now, Jaq allowed himself to complete his mission. Allowed himself to satisfy his need for vengeance. 

He ran this information through his head again and again, before coming to a resolution.

He would tell Menoetius everything he had learned. Everything about the Moors and his wife. 

Menoetius would go to war, Jaq was sure. With a public purpose, Menoetius would find one, the people would rally behind the army. The Moors would suffer great loss, certainly, their fragile nature bodies could not withstand the burn of iron. Their resources would be plucked and their land plundered easily. But their prized King would have to be dealt with separately. His power was too great. The kingdom would lose men and women, too, but what was war without death? And Jaq lived for war.

Everyone who had ever hurt Deidameia would die a painful, painful death. 

✧ ✧ ✧

The wind whistled and the layers of her dress billowed around her in succession. The sun glimmered through cracks in the clouds. Her hair, pinned tightly onto her scalp, remained dormant and heavy. The crowd was cheering. 

Queen Deidameia stood on the balcony, hands placed gently over her stomach. It had been several months since the initial growth, and her increased roundness had made her pregnancy evident. 

In accordance with this, there had been an announcement throughout the kingdom. The Queen was with child. Everyone should take to the streets with joy. There would be another royal in the coming months. Another miracle child with blessings from fairies, Deidameia thought. That is, of course, because of their oath-bound nature. No longer from the shared goal they possessed. She had given up on the decree long ago. 

Now, citizens, bundles of them from all castes, stood below, celebrating. The limestone courtyard was grand with music, people, and happiness. The Queen and the King stood above, surveying it all. Just high enough to see the party, but not be involved in it. 

Menoetius had a hand on the small of her back. It sent shivers throughout her skin. Hard, painful shivers.

Yet, she smiled. She smiled and waved like she was supposed to. The people, the lovely people, smiled back, and for a second, she forgot they were both fakes.

“They love you,” Menoetius told her.

“I know,” She whispered back, hoarse and breathless. She swallowed.

The floor swayed underneath her. Her ankles shook, her knees buckled, and she was falling. She tried to catch herself on anything, but her eyes had retreated back into her skull which was flaming with fever. She was falling. Then, she hit the floor and her womb spiked with pain. The cheers had stopped. The wind had stopped. Her ears rang, and she closed her eyes. 

✧ ✧ ✧

“Who did this?”

Deidameia was on her bed. The covers around her were warm. Warm and soaked with blood. She was propped up, and a maid was lifting water to her lips. It wreaked of sweat. Everything did. 

She wished the maid would bring back the baby. It was her baby. She wanted her baby. 

Give me my baby.

But no noise left her lips, they only parted slightly for the drink. She was tired and her bones ached. Her stomach, her womb, her empty womb, was twisted and contorted with pain. Pain everlasting. She had about grown used to it. It was numb, never-ending, pain.

“Deidameia, who did this?” Menoetius asked again. He stood at the foot of the bed. Dressed finely, in the clothes from the balcony. Red, and gold-laced. His face was washed, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He looked nice, save for the bloodstain running down his ribs. Not his blood, she remembered. Mine. And the baby’s. 

His voice was dangerous, but she was too tired to answer. She closed her eyes. 

He began again. “The child is dead--”

“Get out!” She screamed. Her throat tightened with the effort. The maid retreated in a flash, fear in her eyes. She wanted to call her back, I did not mean you, but the door had shut.

A minute passed.

Menoetius sat beside her cautiously. “Deidameia, please.”

“Fuck you,” She spat, and the King’s eyes widened with shock, his jaw dropping slightly. She turned away.

“I want my baby,” She whimpered, lifting her hands to her face. With great effort, she stroked her eyes. Salty tears wet her fingers. “I want my baby,” She cried. And cried. 

Loss was a tedious thing. It was stubborn and sticky, her mother had said. Deidameia felt it then. Deep within her. So far, that no man-made hook could draw it out from the cust of her emotions. The hardened shell of her trauma. Loss was stubborn and sticky. 

When the unexpected birth was over, she had held the babe. His messy head and fragile form in her arms. He was soft and precious, and hers. He wasn’t moving. He hadn’t cried as other babies did. He hadn’t even flinched. His limbs were heavy, his features closed. He was still. Deadly still. 

He was dead. 

Her little prince, her baby, was dead. 

“Jaq told me that he has seen you in the Moors,” Menoetius explained after a moment. 

Her friend, she remembered. The one who showed up even when her husband did not, with something like love in his eyes. He had followed her. Her skin lifted with goosebumps. 

Admittedly, she wanted, in the slightest bit, for Menoetius to follow her to the Moors. Every time she went, she would imagine him coming too. For him to care about her whereabouts. To be possessive of his wife. Jaq proved to be more proactive than even her own husband. Jaq. She must be wearier of him now. “That you had conversed with fairies. That they found out you were the Queen.” 

Understanding slowly entered Deidameia’s dismayed mind. “Do you think…?” 

That the fairies did this? That they were jealous? That this was a coup? That she was like Philomela? That they had betrayed their promise? That they had killed her baby? 

That her little prince was dead because of them. 

Her mind spun, and her chest rose and fell more rapidly. Her mind racing. 

Menoetius eyes shone. “Tell me everything,” He demanded. “Everything.”

She did. She talked until her throat was dry. She talked in her blood, in the stench of the room, without the presence of her baby. She stifled her crying and talked. 

Menoetius would fix this, she thought. He, in his savage, violent, greedily ways, would make it right. He would give her justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyy y'all
> 
> sorry this upload is late. tbh I didn't know if I was gonna upload again this week, but ur comments were so sweet and polite i just had too.
> 
> thanks for reading!
> 
> leave kudos and comments if u want!! u guys are the best!


	10. In Which Helen Imagines

The air was clearer out here. Like it had been purged of everything selfish and evil. It was in flight with the softest wisp of a breeze. It smelled pure, like flowers and petrichor. Like Helen’s childhood. 

Helen felt she had grown in the past year. She was no longer the child who dreamed of chariots pulled by lions and castles under the sea. Although she still wanted those things, she had put them aside. She had placed them in a box underneath her bed, allowing dust to coat the memories. She embraced forgetfulness and neglect of those dreams out of necessity. 

Helen was the princess, now, really she was. A tool for her father to gain political alliances and support from citizens. She was the image of perfection for the kingdom. Or, at least, she was supposed to be. The object of femininity and poise and politeness, fastened by the grasp of tradition and chained by the control of the men in her life. The men seeking to use her beauty, to discredit her cleverness, to undermine the strength she felt in her blood. She hated them. Her teacher, her father, the nobles who undressed her with their eyes, a fifteen-year-old. 

She hated them all, save for Patroclus, of course, Automedon and Tharacus. 

Only with this trio did she feel true. Human. Not an accessory or decoration. She was free to be herself. The sky was the limit, and the castle was far away when she was on the safe, little planet of her friends. And she worked so hard, so quietly, to get this hour free of studies and royal counsel. For them.

Ever since she bested Tharacus in combat, she noticed a change in him. His words were no longer laced with a condescending tone. His movements weren’t fixed and exact, anymore. His limbs were fluid and his smile relaxed. Slowly, the rigidness of his face had drained and his walls had been torn down. Intimacy emerged. Within and without himself, he allowed imperfection. He admitted when he didn’t know something or lost a race or lost an arm wrestle. (Ones which Helen always won.) He didn't correct or reprimand Automedon as often like he finally understood that Automedon never listened to him anyway. 

Helen sensed he, too like her, was free. Away from guard training and yelling and sick and dying family members. With Automedon, Patroclus, and Helen he was happy.

Tharaucs had just gotten off his shift and had joined her on the way to the cherry tree. As they walked through the garden, bliss was spilling off of him in waves.

The dirt underneath their feet was moist and the grass was limp with water. It had rained consistently in the past days. The midnight pitter-patter of sirimiri was rhythmic and lovely. In the mornings, the air was clean, holding only humidity and sweetness. His boots and her slippers sank ever so slightly in the mud. She held up her dress with a single hand. He rubbed a hand through his hair. 

“It rained last night,” Tharacus announced, looking up at the hill ahead. 

“I know, I was there,” Helen reminded him with a grin. 

“Not like I was,” Tharacus countered, transferring his look to her carefully, “I was soaked to the bone.”

“Did they change your patrol time?” Helen wondered aloud, as she began the trudge up to the cherry tree, “I thought you only did mornings.” 

He looked bashful and allowed himself to trail behind her a little. She glanced back. When there was the due cause, he could turn as red-faced as the birthmark on his cheek. Like a sunburn to his scalp. Now, he proved due cause once again. “They switched me.”

“Oh, well, ask to switch back,” Helen suggested simply, as she reached the peak of the hill. “I need you well-rested and dry for our training sessions.”

Tharacus was quiet. 

“Where are Patroclus and Automedon, anyway?” She asked, placing her hands on her hips. 

The cherry tree had grown since the summer. Its branches, dark and bare, swayed up and out as they hunted for the sun. Helen stood underneath it and stared out at the kingdom. A shallow fog hugged the skyline like a cat stalking a squirrel. The view was nonetheless incredible and mysterious.

She breathed deeply, very glad to be out of geography lessons. 

Today, the friend group was meeting here, at lunchtime, for a muddy wrestling match. Something that had become a bit of a tradition in the past weeks. One of the only traditions Helen gladly participated in. 

“I lied.”

“Hm?” Helen said.

She turned towards Tharacus. She found him standing next to the tree, hugging himself. From cold or dismay, Helen didn’t know. Both? His eyes were downcast, and his tunic was greying slightly at the shoulders from the light mist. Dark tendrils of smooth hair dripped into his clouded expression.

“They didn’t switch me,” He explained with a crack in his voice. He sounded hollow as if someone had scooped essence and energy out of him. “I had to take more hours because of my mom. She’s sick again, Helen. I need to… I need more money to get her medicines.” 

He was ashamed, Helen could tell. He wanted to crawl into a hole and sleep forever, she recognized the feeling, but he was too strong to do so. He was unbroken but beaten down. A seventeen-year-old being kicked when he was on the ground. Even so, he was carrying the weight of an entire family.

Before she realized it, the gap between them had closed and she embraced him. He was taller than her, stronger-looking, and, yet, his body fell limp on top of her shoulders, his head nestled into her neck. The strands of black hair tickled her skin. She did not falter under the weight of his muscular body. She held him, arms seizing his shoulder blades, against her. She held him with tunnel vision and carelessness about potential witnesses. He mattered too much to her.

“Helen. I’m…” He whispered, his breath was gentle, “I feel so alone.”

“You’re not alone,” She promised immediately, pressing her cheek against his chest. She surprised herself with the shakiness of her voice. “I’ve got you, and so do Auto and Pat, okay? I-I can give you so money if you need--”

“No, Helen, please,” He said, lifting his head. He was staring into her eyes now, and his hands squeezed her shoulders and pushed her slightly away. They were firm and stabilizing. There, in his gaze, was so much. “I can’t let you do that. I’m honored, but I just can’t. You know that right?” He croaked. 

After a moment, Helen relented, “I understand.” And she did. She understood about honor and pride. But it didn't make his instant rejection easier to accept. 

“Thank you,” He whispered, soft and sweet. He was still holding her, clutching the puffy sleeves of her dress, and there were glimmers of tears in his eyes. 

“Just… Don’t lie to yourself anymore, alright?” She whispered so that only he could hear. Only him. 

Something ignited in his eyes. “I won’t.”

Then, Tharacus leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. His lips were dry and cautious. Kissing her as if she was the most precious, fragile thing in the world. He removed his lips and glanced at her for approval, then, he kissed Helen again. He tasted like honey.

“You’re so beautiful,” He said between kisses, each light and soft. She liked him calling her beautiful. Truly, Helen knew she was with utmost vanity. However, his kissing, somehow, made the words sour. 

She remained still, like an animal in the torchlight. She was frozen and tethered by her friend’s touch. Heat rose in her stomach. A humiliating disgusting heat, gnawing at her ribs and causing her skin to crawl. She tried to ignore it, to shove it down, but it demanded to be felt, twisting against her. Her hands, her strong capable hands, jumped up to his neck and she shoved him back. Hard.

“No,” Helen gasped. “No, Tharacus, I don’t want this.” 

He choked and stumbled backward, nearly landing in the dirt. His eyes were wide with shock.“Helen--”

“Don’t touch me,” She said, adding, “Please.” She shivered and tried to suppress the growing repulsiveness in her stomach. She turned away and forced herself to look beyond the hill, trying to pace her breathing. Helen wasn't familiar with panic, and, now, she found that she hated it. 

“I’m sorry, Helen,” Tharacus said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“No, you didn’t hurt me,” She whispered, feeling rather unorthodox and silly. What is wrong with me? She demanded of herself. Why wasn’t she just accepting the kiss? Or kissing him back for that matter? He wasn’t the most handsome, but he was kind and sweet. And he liked her. Why didn’t she give him what he wanted? “I just...I don’t want you.”

Tharacus breathed. “Oh.”

Helen whipped around to face him, panic thriving with quick movements. “No, no, I mean…I don’t want it. It. The kiss. I don’t want to be kissed by anyone.” She folded her hands and unfolded them. Again and again.

“What?” Tharacus pressed, looking utterly pathetic. His eyebrows were drawn together tightly, with a slight head tilt. 

She gritted her teeth, attempting again to articulate the pounding of her heart. The numbness that accompanied the kiss. “I don’t feel what you...I don’t want that, I’m sorry,” Helen muttered, eyes down.

After a moment, “Don’t be. I should’ve asked first,” Tharacus responded. He then smiled sadly, his eyes warm with tenderness. He gestured lightly to her, “Look, I can’t pretend to understand what you mean, but you’re my friend. And...it hurts, but I still like you. So, I am going to keep trying to. Understand, that is.”

“You aren’t...I don’t know--” Vulnerability consumed her. Shame swirled around her strictly unaroused body. But, the merciful gaze of her friend was liberation. 

“I’m not alone, and neither are you,” Tharacus promised, repeating her words and pressing his chest lightly with one hand. “Helen--”

“Helen! Tharacus!” They jumped apart. The voice belonged to Automedon. He was running up the hill, with a vibrant urgency in his voice and expression. He approached quickly and panted heavily, grasping at his chest. 

“You’re late,” Helen managed to say. 

After an inhale, “Something happened to the Queen’s baby,” Automedon, with uncharacteristic seriousness, said. 

“What?” Helen and Tharacus demanded in unison. 

Automedon made a few frantic, inexplicable hand motions. “After the gathering...I--you better come to the courtyard,” He said and turned on his heel. “Come on.” He raced down the slippery slope towards the castle’s courtyard. 

Tharacus and Helen followed him.

✧ ✧ ✧

“...with all of this, we shall go to the Moors,” King Menoetius thundered from the balcony. His white face was lit by a ray of sunlight. He, thick and bearded, looked like a merman rising from the ocean as rain lightly pelted his forehead. The crown, designed with the most skilled hand and crafted from the purest gold in the kingdom, rested on his head. All the people looked up to it. 

“And we will take our vengeance for the royal child. We will plunder their riches and avenge the torment of our ancestors! Tomorrow, we go to war.” The echo of his words sounded.

Then, the King turned around and his cape swept the limestone behind him. The tightly-packed crowd roared its approval. The bundles of bodies began to disperse with great force. Everyone shoved, aggressively pushing for his or her own way. Each of them was preoccupied with the enlightenment of the war. The War between humans and fairies, creatures exclusively of fantasy until minutes ago. Seconds ago, Helen was closely surrounded by Automedon and Tharacus, her friends, but the crowd began to split them. Their presence began to fade. 

Though he wasn't quite sure what for, “I’m sorry,” Automedon said, but his voice was faint. “I can’t believe it…” 

Helen, anchored in place, stared up at the space where her father was. Her throat was caught and she could not make any sound. War was coming. And her father, she knew, lived for it. For a moment, she didn’t know what to do.

Until she did.

“Helen,” Tharacus began softly, reaching out to her. Saying nothing, she turned away. 

She pushed through the mass of citizens and castle workers, against the stampede of eager faces. A portion of her sleeve caught on someone’s elbow and she tore the fabric. Helen raced across the cobblestone, her slippers pounding and her heart thudding against her chest. Through the iron doors, up the limestone stairs, and down the hallways. She ran and ran.

Finally, she had reached the Queen’s chambers. Helen charged through the door, gasping with anxiety. Inside, her nose wrinkled in retaliation. A foul stench coated the area. Her mother, dressed in a white nightgown, looked skeletal. Her head was propped up, and heavy layers of blankets had been laid on top of her, seemingly crushing her. A thin film of water, either sweat or from washing, covered Deidameia’s pretty face. She was asleep.

Patroclus rested next to her, on top of the covers, curled in a fetal position. His dark skin and features seemed misplaced in the luminous white of the bed. Even his healthy glow was unnatural neighboring the woman. Freckles and tear stains glazed his cheeks.

It seems he won the race today, Helen thought bitterly. She was admittedly jealous but glad her brother was there to comfort Deidameia when she was...otherwise preoccupied.

Helen swallowed. The princess approached her brother, slowly, as to not wake her mother. She crept onto the bed, large enough to hold them all, and settled herself adjacent to Patroclus. She laid her head on the fluffiness of the royal pillow. Gently, she poked Patroclus’ face. 

Eyelashes fluttering up, he turned his head towards the source of the touch. “Wha...Helen?” He muttered. 

“How is she?”

“Hurt. Tired,” He said with a slight yawn, keeping his voice quiet. “She lost a lot of blood. She needs...she misses the baby.” Patroclus answered. Emotion creaked in his voice. Helen searched for and found his hand. She took it and squeezed it soothingly. He rubbed his thumb on her palm. It was cold.

“Don’t worry,” Helen told him, “They’re gonna fix this. It won’t happen again.” 

She stared at the face of her mother. She was saying this to both of them.

Helen imagined the fairies planting the curse in her womb. She imagined it, the creeping, cowardly thing, an incurable sickness eating at the baby from the inside, slowly gnawing at the vitality within, so that each day its host’s eyes grew less bright and her skin paler. She had noticed, perhaps, the curse's steady, relentless consumption. Yet, she had done nothing. What could she have done? By the Moors, the baby had been destined to be stolen, piece by piece, until it was lost in its entirety. And with its death, Helen knew that, when she awoke, a portion of Deidameia would go, too. And she was angry.

As a comfort, she imagined justice being brought to the Moors. She imagined the fairies burning, each strapped to their own stakes in the center of the kingdom with hundreds of eyes to mock their deaths. Their faces melting, their screams being choked out by smoke, bones crumbling to dust, and blood boiling. The fire was clean and good. And the souls of the fey would be its fuel. 

After a pause, “What do you mean?” Patroclus asked. Innocent, sweet, naïve prince, clutching the hand of his sister. The hand of his protector. I will protect him, Helen thought, I will protect them all. 

“Go back to sleep, Patroclus.”

✧ ✧ ✧

The news spread with haste throughout the kingdom. The royal baby had died, and the beasts of the forest were to be paid back with ruthless violence. Nature was to be slaughtered. And resources, crystal, timber, and land, swallowed up. The kingdom would be rich and avenged within the month. Even the rats, it seemed, knew this to be true. Anticipation held the people, and the numbers of the army increased within the hour. Every person had hope to prosper from the war. Menoetius wanted riches, Deidameia wanted peace, and Helen wanted to prove herself.

Achilles startled awake. The sound of men, hundreds on foot, was approaching the Moors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading guys!! and happy thanksgiving (week) !! 
> 
> leave kudos and comments if yall want <3
> 
> PS: Helen is asexual and very very mad.


	11. In Which Achilles Defends the Moors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: some light violence and some sad stuff

An army stood at the edge of the Moors. Rows and columns of men carried maroon shields, with the castle’s yellow emblem painted on the center. They wore helmets of iron, freshly polished, and blankets of chainmail around their necks. The cavalry was intertwined with the infantry. The few on horseback wore several sheets of metal. Full armor to distinguish their rank. Flags of a yellow and red pattern poked up towards the sky from the masses like accusing fingers. 

Horses snorting, men breathing heavily, feet shifting. They pulsed uncertainly at their post behind their leader.

The human King caught the minimal sunlight with his shiny breastplate and helm. A touch of gold outlined each aspect of the expensive get-up. A cape, decorated with white animal fur at the top, rested on his shoulders and ran down the side of his horse. Which was an auburn stallion shielded with detailed armor like its master. A sword swung gently at his side and he held the reins with gloves of iron. This was a uniform of pride and renown. From generations of kings, worn by men lusting after wars. 

The King had stopped, about a hundred yards from the River Xanthus. With watchful eyes, he squinted at the trees which indicated the beginning of Achilles’ land. 

“I’m going out there,” Achilles announced with an edge to his voice. 

He was standing behind a thick cluster of trees. Hiding, amongst his people. Hiding, and watching the human army inch closer. Earlier in the hour, the King of the Moors had called the Border Guard to him. They came immediately, loyalty evident in their speed. The lycans growled in their wolf forms, and the nymphs chittered in their mysterious tongue seated on hogs coated in moss. Chiron inhaled sharply. He was dressed in leather armor with two swords swaying at his hips. Only the Council was absent. Achilles turned to face his previous master. 

“You have to trust me. Whatever happens, know that I do it for us.”

The battle between humans and the Moors was inevitable, Achilles knew this. And he was ready, excited even, to dig his claws into the throats of arrogant humans. He wanted, so badly, to rid himself of the betrayal he felt because of Deidameia and re-emerge anew with a self-earned reputation of power. He needed to.

Chiron, the wise centaur, sensed this and nodded. 

Achilles launched himself into the sky. His wings starved for flying, hungering for wind, as he always trusted them to be. Their strength swept him up, past the tree line and into the hovering fog. He plummeted down to the Earth over the trees, and at the last moment, Achilles pulled back. He flapped and landed in a slight crouch. The river gurgled behind him. 

He stood and glared, with dignity and isolated pride, out into the faces of his enemies. 

The reaction was instant. Several soldiers released gasps and others stumbled back. In several places, the front line of shields broke. The horse of the King faltered and shifted its footing. Its master’s eyes were wide as he evaluated the threat in front of him. 

Until this moment, most of the humans had forgotten about the Moors’ existence. They had neglected and ignored them, and Achilles was happy for it. Now, he revealed himself. This was the exposure of a creature of ancient power and mystical blood for a fearful audience. This was the dawning of a new era. The separation between the Moors and the humans would be absolved today, and the dreaded mixing of species would occur. Achilles would hesitate no longer. 

He screamed, “Go, now!” His voice was thunder, shaking the ground and rattling the bodies of his oppressors. “Or I will show you no mercy!” 

The King recovered quickly and answered with his own yell. “A king does not take orders from a winged bastard!” Disrespect and mockery laced his tone. His men echoed his words with laughter. Loud and forceful. 

Achilles lifted his chin and stared through the gap in the helm and into the King’s dark eyes. “You are no king to me,” He shouted, hatred enthused in every word. 

In the time he and the Queen were apart, Achilles had aged. From a boy into a man, if he could be called that. Now, many of his tunics were tight against the broadness of his chest and the roundness of his shoulders. Strength was evident in his chest and toned stomach. Nights ago, he even had to change sleeping trees because his height had become too immense for the previous one. He was grand, and his jaw was firm and sharp. He was proud of what he had become. He was the King of the Moors. And they would all know it. Today, they would finally learn. 

“He’s alone,” The King said simply, “Bring me his head.” 

The army shouted in response. Each drew swords, made of the fatal metal. The clatter of the weapons vibrated against the fields. Sternness and determination coaxed their facial expressions. The men lowered their spears and marched towards the border. Hooves stomped against the grass as humans spurred on their animals. Shields were brought up and planted in front of men’s vital organs. 

“You have decided your fate, then,” Achilles breathed. 

“Rise and stand with me!” The King of the Moors screamed, spreading his arms out and showing his glorious wingspan. The Border Guards, the spirits of nature, creatures morphed with animals, and magic residents of the forest obeyed his call. 

The Earth exploded beside Achilles, and two tree nymphs, each constructed of bark and vines, crawled out from their holes, grabbing chunks of dirt and violently shoving themselves upwards. Triumphantly, they roared and pounded the ground, shaking their horns with fury. 

Simultaneously, the nymphs on their warthog mounts came out from their hiding places. Gradually and methodically. Their faces, which were webs of roots and twigs with deep, soulless pits for eyes, revealed no emotion. They were armed with spears of twisting and sharpened branches. Growth made deadly with the skill of their thin fingers. The hogs snarled and snorted as their skeletal riders spurred them forward. With them, were Menelaus and Agamemnon, the lycan siblings in wolf form. Large, unnatural wolves with spattered coats of brown and grey. Their eyes burned with gold. Their lips were pulled back with growls full of white teeth. Chiron trotted between them, a hand gripping each hilt and a firmness in his expression. 

They, too, joined Achilles at the line just beyond the River Xanthus.

Again, the Earth crumbled and a beast, more fearsome than Achilles had imagined, rose up from the ground and flung itself up into the sky. It was a serpent with a body of a thousand twigs and roots laced together in chaotic unity and a deep mouth with rows and rows of jetted teeth. It reached its full height and roared at the army, its entire body rattled with the sound. Achilles gaped at its majesty.

Then, he tilted his chin to look at the enemy. Their arrogance had dissolved. The enemy was disorganized and afraid and frantic ill-ease. The men quivered and cried out in shock. Spears and swords slipped out of unsteady and sweaty grips. The King, on his high horse, could not conceal his tremulation. His greedy mouth was agape. 

A grim smile pressed its way onto Achilles' lips. 

“Charge!” Someone shouted, and the cry rang out stabbing the hearts of every coward and igniting those of every fool. And, the soldiers, with their spears and their shields and their filthy pride, ran towards the Moors. Men on horseback screamed battle cries and waved flags. The human King watched from behind as the space between the fairies and humans began to close rapidly. Achilles howled with all the fearsomeness he could muster and threw himself into the sky. 

The army of the Moors and the army of men clashed together in perfect violence. 

Achilles flew and watched from above, but only for a second. 

Then, he dove, splitting the wind like butter, and swept himself across the battlefield. He plowed through squadrons of men, tearing them down, disarming them, and finally flinging them away with his wings all within a single breath. He wasn’t a creature, he was a force of nature. An element rupturing the integrity of an entire mass. They, the pathetic selfish humans, shattered at his touch. The impact hurt the softness of his feathers, but, the satisfaction at the destruction of his enemy healed. His blood screamed victory. 

At the frontline, humans were being slaughtered left and right. Like pebbles in a child’s structure, they fell at the hands of the nymphs’ savagery. Wooden spears sprouted from bleeding chests. Cloth and flesh were ripped by wolves’ mouths. Armor was pounded by the fists of trees. The hogs trampled the dead. The serpent dug into the Earth and, with dynamic spouts of dirt, cleared yards of land out from under companies of people. Their screams punched the air. 

Deep into the army, a shield caught Achilles’s wing, and he tumbled to the ground, landing ungracefully on his knees on a timely patch of grass. Instantly, soldiers rushed at him, desperate to slay the royal youth. 

Achilles snarled and whipped around to face them. His hands sparked with fire. A shocking neon green lit the faces of his enemies. He twirled around, arms outstretched, and allowed the magic to spill out from his innermost self. A scorching blaze circled the King and granted its victims a sweltering death. Strangers’ agony shot through the air. Mystic smoke drained from his fists. 

Achilles launched himself sky-bound once more. 

Meanwhile, Tharacus crawled across the ground. 

In preparation for today’s raid, the castle guard was forced to wear clothes of red and yellow wool, a helmet of iron, and chainmail. All of it had weighed him down, disrupting his dexterity and reaction time. He had since thrown off the helmet, and now, his sweat-soaked black locks fell into his eyes. His stomach twisted with the pain of impact. 

Seconds ago, his shield had caught on the wing of that feathered ghost, a creature of violence and power like something Tharacus had only ever known in fairytales. His heart was in his throat and grass was under his belly. He was crawling towards his sword and trying to regain breath. The iron blade rested a yard away, amidst the discord of battle.

He placed fist in front of fist, yanking himself towards it. Finally, his hand grasped the hilt. Before he could utter any delight, his eyes rose to meet those of a wolf. Only a few feet away, stood a wolf the size of a horse with solid and burning eyes. Tharacus gasped and pulled his sword towards him. The wolf growled and charged at the guard, smothering other soldiers in its way. 

Before Tharacus could lift the weapon to defend himself, a horse of a black coat slammed into the wolf, knocking it off course and to the ground, interrupting its path. The beast whimpered and shook itself. Tharacus looked up to his savior. 

Automedon was seated on the stallion, with blood pouring out of his cheek and a devilish grin on his face. 

“Get on!” He called to Tharacus and extended a hand. Immediately, Tharacus grasped it and pulled himself onto the horse behind the rider. He gripped the saddle with his thighs and wrapped his arm around the other boy. Automedon kicked and the stallion galloped away, its horse armor tolling rhythmically. Tharacus held Automedon’s waist fiercely with one arm and his sword with the other as they escaped the hellish creature. 

Tharacus shouted into his friend’s face. “How the hell did you get a horse?”

“Is that what you’re concerned about right now?” The younger man demanded, spurring on the stallion to leap over a shredded pile of bodies. 

“You saved me,” Tharacus panted.

“I know,” Automedon answered, glancing back at him quickly. 

Tharacus cried out, “The King! Auto, look!” 

The pair turned their gazes to King Menoetius, stationed at the back of the army. His horse was gone and now, he lay face up on the ground. The winged fairy, the creature of destruction and vile, towered over him in the sky. 

Achilles watched as the worm, the selfish king protected by iron, writhed in agony. The King of the Moors beat his wings, pounding out powerful winds. Soldiers attempting to crowd their king sailed away from the force, as he, trapped by the element, was crushed by the wind's fury. Achilles sneered and soared downward. The King gasped like a fish out of water, and Achilles stood above him, leaning over his prey.

“Filthy human, accept your defeat!” The fey screamed at the dying man, nearly ripping his own mouth apart for the words to escape. He was so close he could see the blood vessels pop in the King’s eyes. Eyes full of fear and death. “I know the extent of your selfishness. And it ends today! You will not have the Moors. Not now nor ever--”

King Menoetius, lungs empty and blood slow, placed his hand weakly on Achilles’ chest. The smallest attempt to defend himself. Achilles shouted and leaped back, his wings convulsing with shock as he tore himself away from the source of the pain. His skin was boiling. His vision blurred from the intensity of the touch. He gasped as the redness, three fingers of redness, flared and burned his collarbone. His hand lifted and he gently pressed the wound.

The army of men retreated. With their force significantly decreased, they rightfully evaluated their defeat. The backs of hundreds of survivors faced the Moors now, including the rapid rising and falling of feet and hooves. Someone swept up his King onto a horse. The mob flushed out with fear and frantic alarm. Corpses littered the fields, traces of cloth and blood mixed in it. The ruins of the pumpkin farm laid out in disarray. The battle was over. More, however, were sure to follow. 

A concerned nymph approached Achilles, its hog sniffing and smelling of petrichor. It offered him a serious gaze with its soulless eyes and a light chitter. Achilles looked up and nodded once, briefly. It bowed in response. 

The Moorish army surrounded Achilles. Most of them had familiar faces, some were new allies. All of them were his subjects. Nymphs, a serpent, a centaur, lycans, and hogs crafted a semicircle around the young king. They began to bow to him, each in succession. The motion was swift and pure and holy and lasting. The moment seemed to sing with purpose and respect. 

Achilles accepted this with dignity. He nodded to each of them, as they rose, as they laid honor upon his countenance.

He wondered if Thetis could see him now. He wondered if she was proud. 

✧ ✧ ✧

Deidameia awoke. She felt well-rested and strong. A soft light filtered through the western window. Patroclus muttered something next to her. His delicate features softened most when asleep. He looked peaceful. She pulled out a hand and stroked his tight curls. His eyes fluttered open. 

“Mom,” He whispered, “How do…?”

“I’m much better, now,” Deidameia assured him truthfully. In his presence, she always felt calm and healthier. It was almost magical how it worked. She mused if this was a portion of his gift from the fairies. Immediately, this thought disgusted her. The fairies. Her talk with her husband. Her baby. 

She pressed a hand against her forehead, trying to smother the growing pain. She recalled something. The most lovely dream. A dream in which all of her childern where here. Patroclus, Helen, and her...baby. Her nameless baby. 

“Where is Helen?” She whispered, and the words came with a painful croak. 

Patroclus rubbed his eyes, “She’s probably in the courtyard waiting for Dad to get back.”

Fear struck Deidameia’s heart. “What happened?”

Patroclus sat up, on full alert now. His brown eyes blossomed with empathy. “Dad took the army to the Moors. For the baby, remember?” 

“Oh,” Deidameia whispered. “I do.” She pulled her knees to her chest, wrinkling her nightgown. She began to cry, quietly. Tears like streams of fire pouring down her cheeks. 

Patroclus, with the sweetest touch, embraced her. And she thought of the cherry tree, and how her baby never got to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyyyyyyyyye 
> 
> hope y'all are doin' wellll and staying healthy
> 
> here is our first battle scene. hope y'all likeyyy
> 
> leave kudos and comments if u want!!


	12. In Which Achilles is Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: blood and knives

“Bring me my wife,” King Menoetius said.

Since the incident, his voice had drained out. Now, only the minimal amount of noise required to form words left his lips. The sound was weak and shaky, like each of the untrained syllables was on stilts. Above all, it was quiet. Quieter than Menoetius had ever been. His audience, the royal court around his bedside, were visibly put-off by the uncharacteristic display. The nurse had to lean in, she did her best to make it undetectable as to not offend him, to hear the request. 

“Yes, Your Highness,” The woman answered, and quickly exited the room. 

Since the incident, paleness had exhausted his features. The space below his cheekbones was hollowed out and dry. Color had been swept away and sucked up, leaving a pale, wrinkled, and unappealing texture. Even an almost blue tinge covered his skin, which doctors attributed to his fatigue. Menoetius wasn’t exactly a young man, but now he looked ancient and sickly as if, when you cut him open, you could find full cobwebs inside. 

The winged creature had killed him, but his death’s course was slow.

The incident, the defeat of the kingdom, the slaughter of the human army, and the display of power by the elf-bastard, Menoetius remembered it all. Thankfully, a ranked officer had pulled the King from the battlefield and returned him safely to the castle. Now, he rested in bed, covered by royal sheets and surrounded by fretting nurses and dismayed royal officials. 

King Menoetius coughed, hacking out air from his lungs. His worn lungs screamed against the pressure, threatening to implode. He spoke, “There is no help for me now. I feel my end is near.” He breathed, “And so…”

The royal court, nobles, scholars, warriors, and priests, around the dying Lordship held their breaths in anticipation of his speech. The room was densely crowded and each person held their head down in respect. Some even averted their eyes, as to not be reminded of the concept of death.

“I have decided to sleep with my Queen one final time,” He explained gravely, “Then, the competition will commence.” Menoetius inhaled and exhaled carefully, then, after he had composed himself, he spoke again, “You have all proven yourselves to be loyal, but I must ask you to do it again.”

With pinned hair and makeup, Deidameia, now dressed finely and presentable, crept into the room, taking a stance behind the semicircle of nobles. The nurse scurried in after her.

“Kill the winged creature. Whoever brings me his corpse...shall have my wife and take my place as King,” Menoetius finished. 

Subtle gasps echoed throughout the enclosed space. The offer was very good. The risk was increasingly high, especially considering an army had no luck in doing so, but domination over the entire kingdom seemed fit for such a price. Kingship was not easy to acquire, but with the promise of this dying man, they had a chance. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless. If, that is, if they killed the mythical beast. 

Jaq was among them, haunting the corner with a shaded countenance. Instantly his gaze shot to Deidameia, who, at her obedient post, looked stunning. Now, this was his chance, she could be his wife, he thought. Unable to resist, he smiled his wicked smile. 

Deidameia choked. Her husband was trading her away. As simple as that. He would use her body as a motivator for his friends. To ensure his revenge. It was wicked and sour, and Deidameia nearly screamed because of the unfairness. She wasn’t an object of political power. Or, at least, she didn’t want to be. She wanted to turn away, to march out of that room and never return, but she held her head high. The Queen planted her feet and breathed evenly. 

I will not take this destiny, she thought, but storming out would not change it now. 

“You are...dismissed,” Menoetius managed to utter. 

The court exited the chambers in an orderly fashion. Their expressions were whirlpools of excitement, fear, and anticipation. Some even glanced at Deidameia, and she could tell their imaginations were crafting a future with her already as if they had already succeeded. Jaq was among them, eagerness in his eyes. She cringed. Prematurely, they all seemed so triumphant. 

They do not know Achilles, Deidameia thought. 

Menoetius whispered “Deidameia.” 

She nodded at him. As much as she hated him, as disgusting as he seemed, especially now with his stomach rising and falling with agony, she pitied him. She pitied the man who lost his wife, Philomela. She pitied the man who was defeated and honorless in battle. She pitied herself for being too weak to prevent the tensions between humanity and the Moors. She pitied Achilles, for being a boy and still burdened with the task of leadership. 

“Come here…” Menoetius said, waving her forward.“Please, Deidameia,” He croaked. 

Death made sinners saints. And death made Menoetius say “please.” 

She smiled gently and obeyed.   
The entire night, her body was void of arousal or enjoyment. She could not be immersed in physical pleasure, for her mind was too filled. It was swimming with ideas of how to save Achilles. And herself. 

Within the hour, she had constructed a plan. A plan to save her friend. A plan to prevent her from being carted off to a violent peer of her dying husband. A plan to save them both. It was risky, bold, stuffed with room for error, and born from the most selfish pits of her heart, but it was all she had. And it had to work. She needed it to. 

✧ ✧ ✧

An arrow whizzed by Achilles’ wing, missing the feathers by a couple of yards. The King had ascended in the sky, staying aloft with rhythmic pulses. The archer, a hooded man dressed fully in green, stood in the River Xanthus. His bow was tightly drawn, a second arrow was ready, the string strained against the pull. The weapon was aimed to kill, but Achilles wasn’t concerned. With a pattern similar to his predecessors, this coward with poor eyesight had consecutively knocked nearly ten arrows, and each had missed their mark.

“Are you even trying to kill me?” Achilles demanded, entirely exasperated with his pathetic attempts. 

The human, with quaking fingers, released another arrow, which sorely missed its mark. “Silence, foul beast!” He cried with false courage.

“Just leave me alone! All of you!” Achilles screamed in outrage, but the human ignored his plea. Another arrow squealed as it soared by the King’s body. Achilles sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Don’t you have something better to do?” 

“I won’t stop until you’re dead!” The man shrieked, throwing back his hood. Now, with an unafflicted line of sight, he drew back his arrow. This time, it whizzed dangerously close to Achilles’ ear, and he could feel the ripping of the air resistance. Achilles growled.

“In that case, you’ve sealed your fate by trespassing on the Moors and being overall annoying with your assassination attempts,” He said and dove down towards the archer. With a scream, the man was swept up into Achilles’ arms, his bow discarded in the grass. The winged man soared through the air, carrying his protesting luggage, and once they were at a climactic peak of about thirty meters, he released the package. The human tumbled, ungracefully, back down to the field, wailing all the way. With contorted limbs and a splash of blood, he landed with a splat. Definitely dead. 

Achilles brushed his hands together and fluttered back into the trees to await the next moron assassin. Each day brought another. Achilles was fed up with the underestimation and blatant disregard for his personal time. The killing was becoming redundant. 

It had been one and a half weeks since Menoetius announced the competition for Deidameia’s hand. Many nobles had tried and failed to assassinate the King of the Moors. Though the reward was high, not a single human had touched a strand of hair on his golden head. 

Menoetius’s death approached slowly, only hastened by his growing anger towards his incompetent subjects. His tantrums were significantly less frightening now that he could not scream. He could barely breathe. Many hours, Helen, Patroclus, and Deidameia waited at his bedside. Telling him stories or wiping his face. All of them, the entire kingdom, was waiting for the end. 

It was on this night, the first of the second week, that Deidameia made her escape. She rode Dasia like she was so accustomed to doing, towards the Moors. It was dark, but the stars speckled the blackness and the moon was full and bright. It welcomed her to the forest edge. River Scamander shimmered with its light and the grass swayed with a midnight breeze. 

River Xanthus, she remembered, Achilles called it the River Xanthus.

She left Dasia to graze, the proud warhorse on the battlefield. In the weeks since the battle, the fields had been cleared of bodies. Loved ones had returned to claim their men and officials had come to retrieve their armor and weapons. Only bloodstains, brutally brown things, and clumps of dismantled earth signified a fight had occurred. Deidameia swallowed and she walked on, her dainty boots careful to avoid the particularly gory bits. The Queen, then, lifting up her dress, crossed the river. 

Into the woods she went, the trees hugging her limbs and weeds swallowing her skirts. The length of the oaks cast shadows and light, in return, crept through the crevices of the leaves. Spots of moonshine illuminated the forest floor, allowing for minimal visibility. Quietly, she tiptoed through the grass, holding her corset with a singular hand. The weapon was concealed there. 

Pressed between her breasts, was a thin knife. Angular and sharp. A tool needed to complete her mission. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” 

Deidameia jerked towards the voice. It was deeper than she remembered. As if maturity was sold in bottles and he had been drinking. Achilles was perched in a tree, his claw-like fingernails gripping the oaken surface. His ivory horns curved up and out, radiant with their natural ointment and starlight. Wings, like an angel’s, sprouting from his back. He wore a black tunic tonight, with a necklace with two blue beads fell onto his chest. 

His eyes, green and infamous, glowed solely for her. Dark circles pounded under his eyes. The assassins, and their frequent attempts, did not allow him to sleep, and he was pining after it. 

“Your necklace,” Deidameia breathed, staring right back, “What is that made of?”

Achilles said nothing. He jumped down from the branch and onto the ground. His wings flapped gently before he folded them. He strode towards her, his eyebrows were drawn together. He was trying to read something in her expression. Deidameia swallowed and controlled her expression, hiding the unease she felt. 

“You’ve grown,” She commented. He had, he was taller than her now, with broad shoulders and a sharp jaw. Even his hair had reached a new length, now flowing slightly above his stomach.

“Why are you here?” Achilles asked, a subtle danger in his voice. A subtle hate. 

Deidameia breathed and recalled the speech she had rehearsed. “They’re going to kill you, Achilles. The King--my husband, has charged his nobility with--”

“I know,” He sneered, fists forming at his sides, “Is that all?” 

“I--I also…” Deidameia stuttered, now obviously intimidated by the cruelty in his gaze. She was flushed with shame. Achilles was not in a merciful mood. 

“What? Spit it out,” He growled at the Queen. The liar, his friend but not anymore. The woman who told him stories about her children. Who listened to him. One of the first to truly listen. And yet she had betrayed him. And, because of it, she had suffered wrong by his hands. 

“I wanted to apologize,” Deidameia said as sincerely as possible. 

The reaction was instantaneous. The sharpness around his eyes softened, and his lips fell slightly open. “I shouldn’t have lied to you. You trusted me, and I took advantage of that.”

Her mind swarmed her with, And I am about to do it again, I am about to do it again, I am about to do it again, I am about to do it again--- 

“Look, I’m sorry. I never wanted any of this to happen. And I don’t want you to get hurt,” This, at least, was true. The truth of it was shown in her eyes. Glimmering like crystal and pure like ice. Achilles’ eyes fell to the ground. She could sense the pull her words had over him. The bond they shared was not broken. And it tugged at him. Deeply and genuinely. 

His hand stroked the blue beads. “They’re mermaid tears. Calypso gave them to me.”

Deidameia didn’t know what to say. She remembered his mermaid friend, Calypso, and his accounts of her antics. The way his face had lit up with laughter and his mouth had cracked open with glee. She folded her hands, “I’m sorry,” she repeated. 

Achilles stepped closer. “I won’t, I can defend myself,” He promised, pressing his chest with an open palm. The palm which wielded fire. 

Deidameia returned the gaze, with equal intensity. “You shouldn’t have to. You shouldn't have to be alone.”

Achilles scowled and jerked his chin away. His wings fluttered anxiously in succession. “I--I...what should I be, Deidameia?” His voice was soft. Softer than before. The voice of a child. 

“You should be allowed to be a kid,” Deidameia insisted. She wasn’t baiting him, now. This she believed with all of her heart. The abuse had stolen her childhood. Violence was eating his. He was only sixteen. In a world of fairies and gifts and magic, innocence remained the purest of these. She wanted him to have it. She wanted all her children, Patroclus with his thoughtfulness, Helen with her bravery, and Agape to remain safe and happy and pure. As all children should be.

Agape was the name she had given her stillborn. Without losing her composure, she could call him that. A stillborn. The nurses told her not to name him. Not to get attached. He was dead, they said. Forget, Your Highness. There will be other children. 

The fairies killed him, they whispered. The entire kingdom whispered, the rumor spreading like wildfire. They planted something in her womb that swallowed up life from her baby, that's what Menoetius said. That’s what he told them all.

She did not believe him, but the image would expand and curl and flower in her mind late at night. And her heart would heave and vomit hate. She hated them. The rumors, her husband, the Moors, all of it.

Agape means love. She chose that name because of love. The undeniable love spilled out from her heart in buckets for her babe, the sweet, pure, innocent baby, her precious little life. Tonight, she would use her love as fuel for liberation. Tonight, she would not fail. 

The knife was cold against her breasts, the wind making its presence known. 

She knew Agape’s death wasn’t Achilles’ fault. In her mind, she understood. Yet, by decree of her heart, he would be punished for it. He had to, one way or another. This was inevitable. Either a noble with a greedy heart, a warrior seeking justice, a lusty adventure, or Deidameia herself. He could not choose who would slay him, but Deidameia could and she had. 

Finally, Deidameia presented her request, “Let me stay. Just for tonight, I’ll protect you.”

Achilles’ glare hardened immediately, and his suspicion was evident. “I can’t.”

“I insist, Achilles,” Deidameia responded, with her mother’s voice. The one she would use to soothe Agape, had he lived. Achilles’ defenses crumbled. He missed his mother, she knew, and what is his greatest weakness became her greatest ally. “You need to rest. And you don’t have to be alone,” She whispered. 

He smiled sadly. 

“Alright,” Achilles answered and there was relief in his voice, “You can stay.”

Deidameia beamed with triumph. 

“But just for tonight,” Achilles reminded her quickly, and the Queen nodded.

Then he turned away, “Follow me.” 

He walked through the woods, and Deidameia rushed after him, hiking up her dress and attaching her gaze to his golden hair. The journey led the Queen farther into the Moors than she had ever been before. Beyond thick trees, through sweeping grasses, and shores with white sand. The moon watched from above and stars twinkled. A breeze blew. 

Eventually, Achilles stopped at a great oak with thick bark and an aged trunk that had lived many centuries. At the top, the branches had curved out to form a cradle. Within the cradle were leaves and grass, forming a makeshift nest. A resting place.

Achilles leaped up onto a low hanging branch. 

Turning to her, “Here,” Achilles said, offering his hand. She took it and together they climbed the length of the tree. It was difficult, and the footing was often unstable, but Achilles made it seem easy. He smiled when she struggled before, with an outstretched hand, helping her again.

In the nest, there was no roof. The sky presented itself, extensive and generous and beautiful. Deidameia breathed the night air and panted slightly from effort. 

Achilles crawled over to the corner and patted the surface, as if to mold for himself comfort, before leaning back. His wings were tucked behind him. Deidameia sat, cross-legged, and craned her neck to look at the stars. The nest was thick and well-made, with easily a thousand threads of grass and various twine. She ran her fingers across the material. 

And after a moment, he asked, “You really think I’ve grown?” Achilles was staring at the sky. It reflected in his pupils. 

“You’re taller than me, now. That's very telling,” She whispered back, stroking the resting place.

He snorted. “Well, you’re short.”

“I am not,” She shot back, happy to indulge in banter with him. 

“Yes,” He insisted. 

“I’m average,” She said and tossed her head back against a sturdy branch. “Everything must seem so small to you. You know, when you’re up in the air.” She gestured to the moon, her hand silhouetted against its brilliance. 

“Yes,” He repeated. 

“Do you like your wings?”

“They’re a part of me,” Achilles answered with a shrug, but his voice conveyed a greater depth of attachment than his nonchalant expression revealed. Deidameia frowned. 

“But...could you live without them?”

“I would survive, I always do,” He said quietly, “But, I think...I would be lost.” With this statement, Deidameia felt the conversation close. He shifted onto his side, allowing his wings to flip out beside him. The powerful expanses of bodily grace. The weapons behind her husband’s death. The rips in his tunic, the ones allowing his wings passage, were revealed. The places where the boy meets the bird. 

“Goodnight Deidameia,” Achilles mumbled and closed his eyes. 

“Goodnight Achilles,” Deidameia offered softly.

The wait began. 

She watched him carefully as sleep consumed his tired countenance. His breathing slowed and the space between the flaring of his nostrils increased. Relaxation pushed its way to his face and his body curled to converse warmth. He was completely calm, save for his wings. They twitched occasionally as if he was dreaming of flying. 

She continued to wait. 

Eventually, Deidameia felt herself drifting too. The breeze coaxing her into sleep and the moon wishing her goodnight. She battled the weakness of her muscles, the traitors that longed for a good rest. Internally, careful to keep silent, she raged against the push of sleep. Time continued to press on.

She lost the battle. What seemed like moments later, she heard the sound of footsteps. The sound of a person attempting to be undetected. Her eyes shot open. Deidameia jerked awake and inhaled swiftly. 

A man was standing in the nest with them. The moon illuminated his face, he was staring down at her. She recognized him, and hatred ignited. 

“Jaq,” She hissed and stood quickly, careful to assume balance once she was on her feet.

He smiled devilishly. 

“I knew you’d come back to him,” He answered delicately. He was dressed in dark clothing. A costume for the deception work of spies. In his hand, a small knife glinted. He lifted it and pointed the tip gingerly towards her. “I needed only to wait.”

“Jaq,” She said, again, as a warning. He ignored it. 

“You will be my wife,” He ensured smoothly. Desire burned in his expression. As haughtily as she expected it would. She only hated herself now for not acknowledging her suspicions sooner. At the castle, she could have ruined him. Now, he held the knife.

She grit her teeth. 

“And I will love you and love you and love you, Deidameia,” Jaq promised, swinging the blade back and forth to the beat of his words. “Your name sounds so pretty on my tongue, don’t you agree?” 

“Don’t kill him,” She begged, shocking herself with the desperation in her voice. 

He stared for a second, overwhelmed with shock. Then, he recovered his anger, “He killed hundreds of our men,” Jaq responded, spitting the words out, “and our King’s death is on his head. If you defend him,” He pointed at Achilles with the blade. It quivered in his grip. “Then you are a traitor.”

“Jaq put down the knife.”

Jaq glared at her, slashing open her face with his eyes. A breath passed between them, and, then, split his face into a grin. “I can’t do that. I will slay the beast and I will be the savior of the kingdom, you see. I have waited too long and worked too hard to stop now.”   
This was a man ready for murder, she could see in his eyes. One who kills and prepares to kill. 

“If you kill him, if you even touch him with that blade, I won’t marry you,” Deidameia swore, using what little leverage she had. 

Anger and betrayal ripped at his face, and Jaq rumbled, “Dearest Deidameia,” Her name was a curse, “that isn’t your choice. I will kill Achilles and earn you. You,” he gestured faintly to her with the weapon, “are bound by Royalty.”

On an impulse, Deidameia seized the knife. The bare blade cutting into her palm and fingers. Blood spilled and wetted her flesh. She squeezed tighter. Jaq gasped as held the hilt, momentarily frozen amidst her audacity. His eyes were wide and he was afraid. Her nerves screamed for her to stop, but she held fast. 

“No. You are bound by Royalty,” She hissed each word out like fire, “And I command you to let go of this knife, and return to the kingdom,” Deidameia whispered, low and dangerous. From her voice, she exerted power and authority. And Jaq’s will crumbled underneath her gaze. “You shall never speak of this again.” 

Jaq’s grip dropped from the knife. He stared at the Queen, the woman he loved so intensely. Then, he turned around and descended down the length of the tree with great haste. Deidameia watched him leave, fleeing from the scene, leaping over roots and ducking under branches. His black-figure faded into the night.

Her hand was bleeding, and the cut was deep. She swallowed and ripped a portion of her dress. With the fabric, she crafted a bandage. After tying the ends, she turned towards Achilles. He remained asleep. She stared on, but his status did not change. 

Deeming it safe, she carefully worked out her knife from her corset. It was her grandmother’s blade. Thin and shiny, with tooth-like edges and a leather hilt. Deidameia never imagined using it. Much less for this purpose. It was a decorative item. Now, it would be used to pluck wings from a delicate angel. 

She crept over to the sleeping boy. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She forced the crying to be silent. It leaped up from her stomach and clogged her throat. It was heavy and ruthless, the guilt clotting her chest. Gingerly, Deidameia placed the knife against his first wing, where it sprouted from his back.

She recalled the plan. She would bring these wings to her husband, as proof of Achilles’ “death.” With this, the other assassins will be called off. Achilles’ life would be saved by Deidameia’s capable hands. In addition, the Queen, by the rules of the competition, would claim sole ownership of her married life. She wouldn’t be forced into a relationship with an abuser. She would be free. Menoetius would die satisfied with his quota and Deidameia would remain boundless. 

He will survive, she thought. 

After all, I did.

She pressed the knife into the feathers. Achilles did not stir. Deidameia began to methodically saw away the flesh. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Slowly, the connection split, revealing thin bones and leathery tissue. And the battle-worn King did not wake from his deep sleep. The flesh was torn away, and the wing fell against her, capsizing unto its attacker. The feathers, feathers worth an entire kingdom, were smooth and well-kept. As soft as a baby’s face. 

She thought of Agape. She whimpered, as hate shattered her heart, and continued the task. 

He will be lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! I hope y'all are having a wonderful thanksgiving!
> 
> thank you for supporting me and I'm glad you are enjoying the fanfiction. stay healthy!
> 
> leave kudos and comments if you want <33


	13. In Which Helen Discovers Achilles's Weakness

“I’ve thought over Father’s words all night,” Helen began, “And--I’ve even consulted the library--look here," She pointed to the page. 

Moments ago, she had escaped her studies and evaded the sour Phoinix. After a quick jump to her room and snatching from under her bed, she ran to the garden. Helen sat on her frilly pink dress and spread out the fantasy books in front of her. Tharacus and Automedon surrounded her on either side. The cherry tree loomed over them, and grey clouds blocked the morning sun, leaving a moody and low dawn. 

The book in the center, titled Journey Across the Sea, was opened to page four-hundred and three. A century-old, the text was an account of a famous adventurer’s quest from her homeland into the world. On this particular page, it displayed her encounter with fairies and time living among the reclusive society. A detailed charcoal sketch depicted a feminine creature with feathered wings and talons. Two twisting horns, like a ram’s, sprouted from her scalp, and a severe expression contorted her features.

“That’s it,” Tharacus exclaimed, flicking his hand out at the drawing, “That’s him--”

“The creature!” Automedon and Tharacus confirmed in unison. Their gazes jerked up and they glared at each other. 

Stroking the drawing, Helen smiled with satisfaction. 

For the past weeks, she had waited by her father’s bedside. The slow crawl of his depleting breaths was agony. His dying went like this: the rising and falling of his chest would become faint. His skeletal face would match the stillness of his living corpse. But, just when she thought he was truly gone, his throat would spasm and the coughing racked his stomach again, sweat breaking on his face. And the fight for air would rage on. 

Despite this painful process, and the stripping of her patience and innocence, the loyal princess did not leave his side. 

For one, he was her father. When in life, she did not appreciate his close-mindedness, but she respected his strength and assertiveness. The undeniable way he kept to his word. The strict control with which he seized his power. His infatuation with justice. The way he loved her mothers, obsessively, although she could not understand the desire. And, finally, she admired his pride, for she mirrored him in this. 

Long ago she realized even when Menoetius died, a portion of him would remain. Within her. Helen would rule the kingdom as her father did. With arrogance and influence and aptitude. Only, unlike him, she would finish what she began. She would conquer the Moors, for the sakes of her mothers and father. And the people would cheer her name. Annual festivals, with pies and streamers and balls, would honor her. Mothers would name their daughters after her. History would love the beautiful cunning, and powerful Queen Helen. She felt this destiny bloom in her soul. 

She did not leave his side because, secondly, as he clamored to fill his failing lungs, he would speak. He would talk of the creature that slew him. Wings like a storm. Green eyes of hatred. Claws dripping from its fingers. A boy with golden hair. His shriek of pain, his pathetic retreat, at the touch of the King's glove. The dying man would ramble, and Helen listened. 

The image of the fairy became a fixation of her conscience. 

And she would bring his downfall.

Helen flipped the page. “It tells of a weakness,” She said, brushing her fingers over the page, “A weakness all fairies possess.”

Tharacus frowned and looked up at her. “What? What is it?” 

Since the kissing, Helen feared their relationship would be negatively affected. Tainted with awkwardness and insincerity. However, this was not the case. Or, at least, as it seemed in all things, the events of the past two weeks took priority over the acknowledgment of uncomfortableness. The battle, and the Death that haunted her father. These, and discovering the fairies’ weakness took priority over everything. 

Within Journey Across the Sea, the author did not explicitly state the material. She only vaguely referred to it. Presumably to protect the secret of her newfound friends, friends of unnatural ways and twisted morals. Selfish traitor, Helen thought grimly, against humanity. Against her blood. However, with the King’s account of the battle and a sleepless night of thinking, she was able to infer. And the enlightenment of what this weakness was swept through Helen with such force she had nearly fallen prone. Her recovery was swift, and glee ignited in her heart. Last night, under the moon, she had thrown her blankets off and danced around the room. 

Helen whispered, “Iron.” 

After allowing her word to settle, the princess then glanced at her friends. Inky hair drooped into Tharacus’ dark eyes and freckles flashed on Automedon’s nose. Their eyes glinted with matching eagerness and excitement. 

“Iron burns fairies,” She announced with reverence and power. She knew, and they knew: This discovery would change everything...

A bird squawked from a few yards away. 

Patroclus held his falcon on his forearm, which was bound with leather and protected from the bird’s talons. He was offering a rat to the pet, and, after a moment of contemplation, it took the food in its beak, bouncing its wings happily and squawking. Again.

“Patroclus, could you feed Eumaeus later?” Helen protested, angered when her speech was disrupted. “This is important.” 

The prince’s pure brown eyes skeeted to her and he frowned, but he continued to stroke the falcon’s stomach.

“I’m listening,” Patroclus promised, obviously too infatuated with the animal to be telling the truth, “Besides, that’s not her name anymore, Helen.” Helen rolled her eyes.

“Her?” Tharacus prompted.

“Yes,” Patroclus responded with a smile, returning his gaze to the pet, “now that she’s been correctly identified as she, I need a new name. One that is as pretty as she is.” Blinking its glassy eyes, Helen swore the falcon practically glowed with vanity and pride, if that was something birds were capable of.

“Seems you have some competition, Helen,” Automedon said playfully, and hopped up from the grass. “Which must be disappointing, considering how you’re consistently drooling over me,” He teased, puckering his lips at her briefly, before joining Patroclus. The bird swallowed its meal. Automedon reached out a hand. Immediately, the stable boy retracted it from the bird’s threatening peck. 

“Hey!” Automedon exclaimed. Patroclus laughed. 

“Do you need me to screw your head on right?” Helen growled and her eyes were like daggers. But, the falcon was occupying the boys' attention. They were unable to properly accept her glare. 

Smiling, Tharacus stood, too, and walked over to them. That traitor. 

“Actually, Helen, he saved my life,” Tharacus said swiftly and casually, “So, he must have something coherent up there.” Arriving at the scene, he flicked a finger at Automedon's forehead. The other boy dodged and scooted away, his fists popping up to defend himself.

“This time I did it for free,” Automedon responded, “After that, thirty gold, upfront.” He warned, low and dangerous. Anyone else would've figured he was serious, but his friends weren't fooled. 

Tharacus rolled his eyes. The guard crossed his arms and tilted his head. The bird repeated the action with perfect form. Staring into its eyes, “What about naming her Birdy?” Tharacus suggested. 

Automedon looked at him in horror. “Tharacus.”

Throwing his hands up in exasperation, “I was kidding!” Tharacus related with a voice crack.

“Liar!” Automedon accused with equal intensity, practically jumping up and down, jabbing a finger at him.

“I was!” Tharacus shot back, fiery and rapid, “I mean--I’m not!” 

“Do you want her to get bullied by other falcons?”

“No! Don’t call me a liar, you little--” Tharacus reached out to strangle his friend. 

Automedon, anticipating this, squeaked and skipped away, down the hill. Tharacus watched, with triumph in his gaze. Once the ginger was a safe distance away, he called out, “Your sense of humor needs improvement!”

“I’m surprised your brain can even discern that,” Tharacus muttered, and he crossed his arms again, feigning indifference. 

This was, essentially, Tharacus and Automedon’s relationship. Hasty banter consisting of familiar jabs and physical threats that never really evolved beyond threatening. It was overall a very sweet and cruel performance that both, though they would never admit it, thoroughly enjoyed. 

“Didn’t any of you hear what I just said?” Helen demanded, bubbling with frustration. She shut the novel with a slam and stood. Dress pooling with dew at the bottom, she marched towards her twin and Tharacus.

“Iron burns fairies,” Tharacus repeated, with a meaningless gesture. 

Helen answered, shivering slightly in the morning cool, “Yes, thank you, Tharacus,” --He smiled bashfully-- “and we need more, but, the question is, where would our supply come from?” 

“We have plenty of iron,” Patroclus answered, and the falcon chirped in agreement. “The storage, remember, Helen?” 

Helen shook her head, “Swords and armor proved to be insufficient against the Moorish army and...him.”

Him. The winged devil. 

“Maybe, but I’m sure with some more training…” Patroclus trailed off. 

Tharacus scoffed. “You weren’t there,” He reminded him. “You didn't see how...” Patroclus looked down, slightly ashamed, a brush of pink on the dark of his cheeks.

Finally daring to trudge back into Tharacus’ space, Automedon interjected, “Patty, at this rate, we’ll lose the entire supply by the next battle. Not to mention soldiers...Even what we managed to salvage was damaged.” 

Tharacus nodded in grim agreement. 

“Poor Tharacus doesn’t even have a helmet!” He finished boldly, like this was the pressing crisis of the era, nearly whacking the bird with a wide gesture. It squawked in retaliation. 

“Sorry, sorry,” The offender muttered, giving her more adequate space. 

Tharacus laughed dryly, “I appreciate your concern.”

“Of course, man,” Automedon said, clearly happy to have soothed Tharacus’s irritation. They shared a smile.

“Our army needs more innovative weapons and resources if we are to stand a chance,” Helen announced with her Queen’s voice, rubbing her chin. She had been working on this, among other queenly things in preparation for the coming years. In fact, her entire life had been centered around preparing for this role. Authority and control, while maintaining feminine grace. These were the qualities she possessed.

The boys nodded, save for Patroclus, whose eyes were clouded with a private concern. 

“We’ll have to make treaties with the other kingdoms,” Helen added. Other nations, through political alliances, could become miniature pockets of wealth. 

“What’s wrong, Patty?” Automedon asked, shoving the prince's shoulder gently, causing the falcon to squawk protectively. The stable boy jumped away. 

“Gods--Give it up bird!” Automedon requested, scampering to Tharacus's side and clinging to his arm. Tharacus allowed this with only a disapproving expression as a protest.

Patroclus looked down. 

“Patroclus,” Helen prompted. 

After a breath, “Dad’s dying,” Patroclus managed, his voice quaking, “And you’re already talking about going out there again.” There was an accusation in his tone. It was faint amidst the genuine and predominant distress he was expressing. 

The trio exchanged glances. 

“This is for Dad,” Helen promised, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. 

“But--what if, what if, he was wrong?” Patroclus protested sadly, staring into Helen's eyes. Darkness on darkness. “What if we should just leave the Moors alone?”

“We--I can't do that, Patroclus,” Helen explained briefly, her own voice shaking. He waited, they all waited, but she would say no more. 

✧ ✧ ✧

Deidameia placed the bounty at the foot of her husband’s bed.

Without their host, the wings, despite their boundless capabilities, were attracted mercilessly by gravity. Lifting them had not been an easy task for her slim arms and aching back. They weighed several stacks of books. Not children’s, but textbooks with leather spines and pages filled with scholarship. She had carried them, the fragile killing things, through the night-soaked trees to Dasia and had stuffed them in a burlap sack. And they rode, lifeless and cramped in their prison, to the castle. 

The payment for her freedom.

Menoetius opened his eyes, his head was propped up and his mouth hung open with fatigue. Deidameia methodically stripped the bag and unfolded the wings, their feathers were cold. They ruffled under her fingers. 

“You…” He whispered, then a hacking cough consumed the rest of the phrase. The Queen stifled a wince. Finally, he recovered his breath. “Ah, tell me...” He croaked, “How…”

“I killed him,” The Queen responded. She strode towards his beside. Folding her hands, she stood with perfect posture, glaring down at him. “I bested the creature. Everything belongs to me now. The fate of the kingdom and my destiny…”

He said nothing, his eyes were endless voids and his face sunken. “In life, I always...I always thought too low of you.” It was a shallow whisper. His lips barely moved. The King glanced to his left. Sitting next to his hand, was a sash. A sash of red and yellow with the royal insignia imprinted on the center. 

Deeming it proper to do so, the Queen lifted it carefully and rubbed her fingers over the gold. It was warm with candlelight and pretty. She sensed that it would be hers, now. He planned for the victor to have it, as a first in a long line of rewards. The new king. This, within her grasp, signified her success.

She looked back to Menoetius. 

He mouthed the syllables of, “Deidameia,” and then was still. Open-eyed and slack, he rested. 

Deidameia waited for another cycle of coughing to commence. Another struggle for life. Quietly, the moments passed, and the Queen realized this was different. Instinctively, her hand reached for his face. It was cold and dry. Life had seeped from his pores, and only the husk remained. Soulless and heavy. 

“Nurse!” She cried out, and screamed, “Get me a doctor! Fucking--Doctor! Doctor!” She hollered, the room compressed with sound. Servants rushed to her call. Hands gripped her waist and arms. They were pulling her back, away from her husband. A woman touched his neck with two fingers. Another held the Queen in an embrace, but Deidameia felt nothing. 

“Menoetius…” She whispered, but he was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorreh boys i will be back in school soon, so updates won't be daily. :C
> 
> i hope y'all are healthy and doing well!
> 
> leave kudos if you want, y'all know the drill <3


	14. In Which Thetis Returns

Pain.

Fire licked at his back, swallowing his nerves. It spread through the passages of his blood. It seeped into his bones and invisible claws tore at his organs, ripping through muscle mass. Pain flowed from his wings like ice, frosting his entire soul in a dark hell.

Achilles was awake. 

Shoving himself upwards, he groaned, choking on the effort it required. He glanced around, finding the nest empty. Then, quietly, he tilted his chin to glance at his back, to discover the source of the pain. 

They were gone. 

His hand jumped up. Achilles rubbed his back, confirming the unimaginable. Nubs remained from where his wings were stolen. Little uplifts of flesh and bone, crusted over with dry blood. His eyes grew large, and the source, having now identified, screamed louder. Achilles swallowed, as his eyes pooled. His blood roared.

Broken and weak, he wailed. 

He cried out, with wordless agony, and fell back against his nest. He shouted into the sky, demanding of it meaning with trivial cries. The sound trembled through his lungs, the flesh threatening to split in two, suffering a massacre. He suffered a massacre of his entire purpose.

The trees shook, the air vibrated, his heart mourned, tears fell from his eyes, blurring his vision, but the clouds gave him nothing. Nothing at all.

Eventually, after what seemed like centuries, fatigue took its course. It swallowed up energy and hope. It consumed everything, and only numbness remained. He curled onto his side, weeping silently. 

Then, with his fingers clasping each other and his head low, he remembered.

Deidameia.

✧ ✧ ✧

The afternoon came swiftly. The sun dipped low, and darkness began to descend on the Moors. Despite the hours, no one had answered his cry. His subjects proved their lack of loyalty by forgetting him and forfeiting His dying Majesty. The fucking traitors. 

This is what it felt like. Dying.

Days passed, and only minorly did the pain fade. Achilles fell into a depression. He wallowed in self-pity, lacking all desires or motivation. Eating disgusted him and sleep consumed him. For he knew, that even the slightest movement triggered intoxicating anguish. Thus, he allowed the numbness to reign. Numbness covered all in sweat-soaked sheets of stillness. Numbness. 

Finally, one evening, he could wait no longer. He swallowed and stumbled through the woods. Aimless and weak, he moved, spurred on only by the flaring pain within his wings. Or, where they should be. His connection to them was broken, but he felt them nonetheless. He could feel their agony. The missing space was charged with fire and ignited with ice, loneliness seeping from their feathers. Wherever they were. This gave him hope, at least, that they remained intact.

But, how, in this godforsaken world, could he ensure their return?

Achilles collapsed, ankle rolling underneath him. He shrieked as his body slammed the rubble. His face bled, cut by the rocks. The River Xanthus gurgled in front of him, the smell of its moss reaching his nose gently. He breathed, hard and low, but did not get up. He felt another cry rise in his throat. He waited, staring into the dirt. He waited to weep, but it seemed his tears had run dry. Nothing came. 

“Stand.” 

The voice was a clash, like lightning striking the ground. His chin lifted.

A figure, like a geyser, had risen from the deep. Seafoam molded a person, looming over him with misty eyes. Waterfalls of hair streamed down her sides, and white bubbles clung to her body in clusters. Her form swayed back and forth, unstable and watery. Splashes of stream struck his body, ejected from the woman's curves.

Achilles gasped, “Mother.” 

There were legends of this. Fairies returning but briefly, with the momentary flesh of nature, in their successor’s most desperate time of need. Within moments and with mystery, they brought comfort, peace, and Moorish quests. This was an honor, to which few were granted. However, Achilles did not feel honorable.

And deep shame pounded his heart. Taking every smidge of strength he could muster from his fragile body, once powerful and grand, now pathetic and useless, grunting with effort, he obeyed and stood.

“Achilles,” Thetis whispered, her voice was compelling but emotionless. Her expression revealed nothing, “I mourn for you. Humans save nothing but hate for the Moors. Evident in my rape, and evident in this,” She hissed, gesturing to him smoothly. Her rage revealed itself only in practiced containment. The fairy maintained an unearthly composure. A stillness birthed from her pure blood. “This violence against you.” 

Even she could not articulate the cruelty of the crime. The pounding loss of his wings. A nightmare no fairy should ever possess, even if only in their minds. A level of torture in their peoples' personal hell. A stripping of honor, identity, and meaning. The worst, most unimaginable pain. Her eyes only searched for recognition in his.

Breaths came, shaking and haughtily. With an involuntary bow, one wreaking of disgrace, he asked, “How long will this anguish last?”

Thetis stared. The voids that replaced her eyes held tranquility, a mastery she possessed even in life. One Achilles had neglected.

“Nothing will be finished until the humans, including and especially she who hurt you, are served their due,” She promised. The truth of her words closed his throat. 

It was Deidameia. He knew it was, from the moment he awoke. For days, unbelief shielded him, and doubt blinded him. And now, betrayal, like an old wound, festered with infection. In front of his mother, dead and wronged by humans, he nearly wept. Deidameia. The Queen of the Humans. Selfish, greedy, hungry creatures void of neither honor nor compassion. Liars. Thieves. Wicked. 

“What should I do?” He whispered, looking up into those eyes. 

Thetis answered, and something evil haunted her tone.

“Mothers’ suffering extends to their children, just as mine does. I suffer with you, and she will suffer for her child. More than she would for herself.”

Achilles recalled how she spoke of Helen and Patroclus, motherly love blooming in her eyes. How he longed to be like one of the children she spoke of. A desire made decayed and rotten with time. 

“To seize your revenge to the fullest, kill not her body,” She advised carefully, watching him as the words rushed around his mind, “for that is kind. Too kind. 

No, instead, slowly, slowly, taint her child,” She thundered, her body drummed with the force, her cheeks spilling with Xanthus ichor, “Let her watch as he dies. Let her feel inevitability and hopelessness, and she will know pain as you do.” 

Thetis swept a hand underneath Achilles’ chin. Water encased the sharp skin and flowed down his chest, wetting his clothes, baptizing him with fey’s blood. Blood already shed. 

“You will find a way, my beautiful son. Take your revenge,” He nodded, and nodded, her hand allowing him passage through its waters, “My time has gone, but yours has not. Do this, in service for me, yourself, and the Moors. Do it for all of us,” She commanded slowly, the words reaching Achilles’ senses gently. She stared for a moment longer, then, the water’s pressure began to weaken. Her form began to fade and wilt back into the River. The stream sweeping his mother away. He was losing her again. 

Achilles embraced her torso, but his arms slid through, and he screamed, “Wait! Please, I am not--”

“Achilles, you are the crown. You are made of strength,” She promised quietly, her watery lips flushing with the words as he placed his hands around her misty face, “In time, your body will adapt to the pain, and your mind will suppress it. But do not let the humans evade theirs.” The voids of her eyes illuminated with sunlight, and her hair and body became fog, evaporating, and sinking. 

“I won’t,” He whispered back. 

She dissolved into a light mist, her cold hands clinging to his neck, “My power remains in you, King of the Moors,” it sounded like a murmur, but it might’ve been a scream. She was drawn back to the Underworld. In the place, lit by golden fire and fields of pink flowers, where fairies sleep. 

Her quest delivered and her comfort offered, Thetis disappeared entirely. The wind blew her away, and only droplets of her body remained suspended in the air. Slowly, they too fell to the ground like summer rain. River Xanthus swallowed them up and pulled them away. Achilles watched the river run.

“Mother,” He muttered, sadness creaking his pitch. His anger, his agony, and his depression remained in his chest. A sphere of emotional turmoil that Thetis could not remove nor wanted to. A burden that was his to bear. And his alone. 

Nonetheless, she had served her purpose.

With his quest, Achilles was no longer lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eheyeeyejhjgyuhijokp
> 
> whats up boiiis
> 
> i hope y'all are doing well and enjoyed this chapter. sorry its short, and yes, updates will be delayed now that im no longer on break. sorry :CCC
> 
> leave kudos and comments if you want!! all my love <3


	15. In Which Briseis Escapes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this one is good

Patroclus swung his arms across his desk. Books, paper, and pencils went flying, scattering across the floor in a heated mess. There was a shelf above the workspace, which was cramped and stuffed with novels and textbooks. Ever since he was a boy, Phoinix always had encouraged the prince's reading. Patroclus cried out and snatched the spines in handfuls, and launched them across the room. The projectiles smashed into the limestone walls with numerous clatters and plowed through the white curtains surrounding his bed. 

Anger boiling over and despair spiking, he rushed over and clasped the curtains' edges. He yanked them free of their mahogany holds. A raucous ripping sound burst through the air. The fragile cloth sank to the floor in defeat. The falcon, from her perch in the corner of his bedroom, squawked with alarm at her owner’s thunderous display. She hopped up and down, absorbed in fear or sharing in his rage, Patroclus did not know. Maybe both.

Patroclus, still holding the dismantled pieces of fabric, breathed heavily.

“It's alright, Briseis,” Patroclus mumbled. He had chosen this name on account of the way the syllables merged cleanly together to form one unified word. It was smooth, smooth as the falcon in flight. It was as fitting as the wings on her back, strong and capable. 

Patroclus was lying to her, he knew. It wasn't alright.

His dad was dead.

He died an expected death, yes, but this minor fact did not soften the blow. 

What cruel twist of fate caused this? His father's life had been so far from his, and now the separation was unbreakable. The prince had been robbed of his opportunity to ever know him. His father had always been so busy in his strategic room, locked away, and never inviting outsiders or accepting invites from outsiders. Despite living in the same castle, the King had remained a hermit, aloof from his family. Every day, Menoetius fell short of being connected, but he did not care. He’d rather plan out ridiculous wars and dream of Moorish treasure. Fatherhood had been his lowest priority, and Death had sealed his desire with a finality no one could undo. 

And Patroclus had imagined the day when everything would turn around. Perhaps, when the prince had reached maturity the King would consider him worthy of attention. At eighteen, maybe, Menoetius would realize Patroclus existed. That his son had anything to offer. Anything at all.

A twisting knot of guilt was centered in his stomach. He couldn't dismiss the thought, the nightmare, that it was his fault. Some kind of unknown shortcoming. Some kind of childhood mistake obstructed him from his father. A fatal, mysterious, terrible flaw that sucked the vitality from their relationship.

What did I do? Why didn't you tell me? Why did you have to leave?

Patroclus, overwhelmed with anger, an emotion that had always been a stranger to him, flung himself to the window. Double panes crossed with black iron gates. He quickly detached the lock and shoved the doors open. They swung and slammed out. 

Cool breeze stroked his cheeks and caressed his curls, ensuing in them life and motion. Patroclus breathed, filling his lungs gently, attempting to assume tranquility. Inhale...exhale...he stared out into the courtyard. The cobblestone slick with rain. A few people marched on below, two milkmaids carrying buckets and a squad of guards, clothed in yellow and red. Their conversations were indistinct and distant in relation to Patroclus, as everything seemed to be.

The door to his chambers suddenly opened with a booming slam. His skin leaping off his bones, Patroclus startled with a shriek and stumbled away from the window seal. He collapsed on the tiled floor and jerked his head to look at the intruder. It was a servant girl, maybe twelve, dressed in blue, with wide eyes and rosy, round cheeks. 

“Sorry!” She squeaked, her golden curls bouncing, “I heard a crash--”

“No--I just--don't worry--” Patroclus stuttered bashfully, probably seeming very un-princely with his limbs sprawled out around him. Embarrassment flooded his cheeks.

Too late, Patroclus noticed that the falcon had launched herself into the air, hovering with violent flaps and fretful chirps. Her small body darted within the space, and her intelligent eyes spotted the window. 

Patroclus gasped, “Wait, no!” He jumped to his feet and shoved his head outside the window.

His hands brushed the rim of the shutters, as the royal falcon swept over Patroclus and into freedom, ascending up into the dark sky with grace and purpose. Darkness immediately shrouded her meager but robust build. The moon sleeked her feathers with gentle light. She dived beyond the courtyard and darted across the expanses of grass outside the palace walls, vanishing with unpredictable speed.

“No! Wait, please!” He called after her, his voice echoing into the night. “Briseis!”

✧ ✧ ✧

Days pressed into each other. Each night and morning molding into one forgetful, drowsy form. Achilles’ waking hours were consumed with meditation, futile attempts to contact Thetis again. She, too, had abandoned him it seemed, enchained by the hands of Death. Nights were similarly restless. His nest was worn, now, from tossing and turning. He knew not what Thetis could tell him, but he longed for her voice. That, at least, would be welcomed. That would be enough.

Today was different, finally. Achilles had forced himself to walk across the stretch of land bordering the Moors. The land where farmers prepared and struck the dirt and plants into submission. It was despicable, their filthy hands and even filthier machines tainting the riches of the Earth, but dealing with those wicked men and women and children would have to wait for another day. 

Achilles stood in the field. Overgrown wheat swayed in a rhythmic dance around him. He watched, from his hiding place, a farmer. The old man was wrinkled and worn, with sun-spots dotting his forehead and ripped clothes dressing his round belly. He held a curved staff in his hand, with a knob of cedar at the tip. A wolfish dog stood next to him, barking ferociously at the ground. 

“I got you, filthy bird!” He grunted, with a thick accent. 

Underneath the shadow of his staff, a falcon was tethered to the ground. A fishnet had been thrown over its body, and its full wingspan was stretched out. The weight of the net directly combating the strength of the falcon's heart. Despite the hopelessness of its circumstance, it struggled. It flapped and squawked, with energy and fervor, pulling at the net and pushing against the dirt with indomitable determination.

Achilles surprised himself with feeling admiration for the bird's character. He remembered his mother’s words, my power remains in you, she said. He wondered. 

Carefully, he brought up his hand to his lips. He flicked his fingers at the falcon, and sparkles of green magic ignited at his fingertips. The power of his blood. 

There was only one thing humans loved. Themselves. 

Regretfully, “Into a human,” He whispered.

As the staff came down in a killing arch, the falcon’s wings grew. Its bones stretched into thick limbs, and its feathers shrunk and smoothed out into human skin. Skin flush and deep like the richest Earth. Its spine lengthened, and from its talons emerged fingers. Dark, shiny sheets of hair sprouted and shimmered down its back. Its beak shortened into a curved nose, and knees, knobby and fresh, pushed against the dirt. 

Achilles smiled. It had worked. 

The farmer screamed, stumbling back and chortling out curses, “Demon! Demon!” he cried. Rotating on his heel, he sprinted madly away from the scene, and his dog followed obediently. The pair plunged into and disappeared behind the folds of wheat, the human’s screams fading with distance. 

The falcon stood and tossed off the net, evidently female by her curves and breasts. She examined her hands, with confusion expressed clearly on her almond face as miniature feathers wilted into fingernails. She twirled around, shifting uncertainly on her new feet and searching for her wings.

Achilles ground his teeth, understanding the sense of loss. Nevertheless, he sobered himself and pushed away his pain. It was necessary, he knew, for his quest to be completed.

The fairy walked out from the wheat into the patch of dirt, holding his head high and staring straight into the falcon’s eyes. Charcoal things with stars of intelligence glinting in her pupils. She returned the stranger's gaze easily, tilting her chin up ever so slightly to meet his taller stature. They circled each other briefly, their eyes motionless. Her nakedness ignored by both creatures. 

“What have you done to my beautiful body?” She demanded lowly. 

Achilles was momentarily dumbfounded by the strength of her threatening and accusatory tone. This bird had been defenseless and he was her savior. She should be thanking him. His jaw dropped carefully, “Would you rather I let them beat you to death?” 

She scoffed, and Achilles nearly slew her right then and there.

“I’m not certain,” She remarked, rotating her new shoulders back. She shook her head of thick, tangled hair. One of her hands jumped up, and she fretfully picked at the mop. When the curls refused to divide themselves, she deepened her scowl. “Rats have created better nests...,” She grumbled, and Achilles forced himself to ignore the comment. 

Then, sighing, “Stop complaining, I saved your life,” He reminded her truthfully. With this, she seemed to register his authority. She dropped her hand and averted her eyes, shame blooming behind the irises. She was a bird, yes, but even falcons understood balance. Justice, and repayment. The order of nature and the law of debts, as all animals of the Moors did.

“Forgive me,” She murmured. 

“What do I call you?” Achilles asked her, deeming an introduction was now appropriate. 

Eventually, she returned his gaze, “Briseis,” she announced proudly. He waited for a moment, and Briseis filled the quiet with further explanation. “The prince named me. I used to be owned by him, but no longer.”

“He treated you poorly,” Achilles hissed, with a nod. Her son's cruelty was further proof of Deidameia's incompetence and neglect, nothing more. How pathetic and blind I used to be, Achilles thought.

“No,” Briseis denied firmly. Achilles was imperceptibly shocked by the earnestness with which she spoke the word. “But a prison remains a prison, no matter how nice the cot.”

This he understood, and his respect for the falcon grew. She was a worthy partner, he decided. Every King needs advisors, and with Briseis, the beginning of the court's reformation was strong. 

“You escaped.”

“I seized my opportunity and flew to these fields.”

“You are brave,” Achilles acknowledged.

“Yes,” She agreed, her eyes shimmering with pride, yet, another characteristic they shared. Achilles smiled. 

After a moment, “In return for saving my life, I offer you the only thing I have. My service,” She said, and finished with a hesitant bow, tendrils of hair dripping into her face.

Falcons were proud creatures, and this admittance of poverty was difficult for her, Achilles could tell. Briseis had been the pet of the prince, he registered again. He could tell by the way an arm was crossed over her chest and the other thrown out. A perfected posture, one earned exclusively from early life in the castle. 

Everything, Achilles mused, everything will change for you, Briseis.

“What do you need?” She asked, without looking up.

Achilles watched, allowing her stance to set into muscle memory, and then answered softly, “Wings.” The slightest bit of enclosed pain seeped into his voice. Then, he inhaled and said louder and more firmly, “I need you to be my wings.”

Lifting her head, Briseis squinted at him, thinking over his words. 

Achilles then delivered to her his mission. 

✧ ✧ ✧

Deidameia strode through the hall. 

A week had passed since the kingdom had learned of Menoetius’ tragic death, initiated by a winged beast of the Moors. Sadness for the King, whether authentic or fake, had shattered the morale of her citizens. Fear, however, had mostly been withheld as the propaganda of Achilles’ death spread. Community life chugged along, and civil peace remained intact. This at least was a victory. 

Achilles’ wings, the beautiful white things that Deidameia could not bring herself to destroy, had been locked in a glass case in her bed-chamber. They were terrifyingly tranquil and haunted her ceaselessly behind the wooden closet doors. 

She hated them. She hated what they meant. She hated the cost of her success. 

Deidameia’s mourning period had come to a rapid close as she began to temporarily assume more of Menoetius’ duties. For one, she had to reelect many members of the Royal Court, since many of them had met their end by Achilles' claws. It was difficult to find willing crutches to carry the weight of the Crown, especially during this period where the survival rate of the position was surprisingly low. In addition, it was difficult to find those who were simultaneously of noble character and, not only willing, but worthy. These combined factors rendered the task nearly impossible. 

Anxiety bubbled from Deidameia’s pores. Her heart pounded against her golden-trimmed corset. Her walking pace was frantic, conveying her distraught to all of the servants she passed. They avoided her line of sight, dipping their heads. Windows, thin expanses of glass, lined the top of this hallway, illuminating the carpeted floors with sunlight. Each was positioned above columns of detailed carvings, ancient designs of the kingdom's people. As she passed a particular indent between pillars, an unidentifiable figure rushed over to her. A hand grabbed her arm painfully and drug her towards the shadow. Deidameia yelped and stumbled after them in succession.

“I know what you did,” Jaq hissed, holding her shoulders against the column, pinning her there. Shadows crossed his face.

This was the first interaction they had since Jaq's confession and Deidameia's violence against Achilles. Nights had passed, and Jaq had only been driven deeper into madness and fantasy. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” She demanded.

“You didn’t kill him,” Jaq whispered, leaning in. She could smell the sweat on his neck and see the fury in his dilated pupils. His lips were inches from hers, but the enclosed space was far from arousing. The Queen jerked her face away. “Achilles. You harvested his wings and claimed the prize. You’re a liar. A coward,” He seethed, his palms digging straight through her bones.“Too weak-willed to finish the job.”

As she had been doing for weeks, she struggled against the guilt chewing at her heart, rubbing away the tissue. 

Deidameia swallowed, and without meeting his eyes, mumbled, “No, I was strong enough to spare him.” Jaq said nothing. 

“I saved him.” She insisted, panting and afraid, not of Jaq, but of herself. Of what she had done. Of what cruelty she was capable of. Doubt clung to her mind. No, no, I am telling the truth, she reminded herself. I am. “I saved him.” I did.

Jaq ignored her protests, he only pushed her further into the limestone. “You cheated me out of everything, heartless wench,” He whispered, low and unthinking. 

Deidameia scoffed, a fearful laugh escaping her lips. “I am the Queen. What could you possibly do about it?” 

Finally, she looked at him, a rebellion against her fear, and Jaq’s face twisted in anger. 

“I’ll tell everyone,” Jaq swore, he shook her violently, and her teeth rattled in her mouth. Then, he slammed her into the marble again, her head cracking on impact, “I’ll tell everyone that the phantom lives. And, then, I will kill him, and the whole kingdom will give me what I deserve. And I will. Make. You. Mine.” He whispered, placing emphasis on the words like acupuncture. His lips brushing the faints hairs on her neck. His actions, his words were protected by darkness. By secrecy. 

This ends now.

Deidameia growled. “I have had enough of you.” 

She placed her hands on his shoulders and shoved him back. She underestimated her strength, and the weaker person fell against the wall, lurching against the column. Undeniable shock contorted his hideous face. 

“Guards!” The Queen screamed, her voice amplified by the tall ceilings. Jaq was frozen with horror.

Immediately, three guards rushed the area. Concerned and ready, they awaited her request. Breathing deeply, she folded her hands and stepped into the light. 

“Arrest this man,” Deidameia commanded, pointing a thin finger at Jaq. Betrayal flashed across the leech's features, his eyes darting between her and the guards. “and put him in the deepest dungeon. You won’t be standing in the sun anytime soon, Jaq. Which is fitting, for a roach such as yourself,” Deidameia said with a forceful smile. 

Obediently, the guards closed in on the offender, and he scrambled away, tripping over himself. His timidity was exposed like an appalling rash.

“Deidameia, you can’t be serious,” Jaq said, with a nervous snigger. Deidameia raised an unamused eyebrow. Finally, the guards seized his arms and raised him off the ground. She stood by, watching carefully, as the men pulled him down the hallway. Jaq wriggled against their grips, jerking his head back and forth, and kicking intensely. But, their grasps remained, displaying his deficiency for a dozen bystanders. 

He screamed over his shoulder. “Deidameia! Deidameia, no! Please, I’m sorry--”

“I am not,” Deidameia interrupted swiftly, and after a moment, “Stop,” She commanded, with a wave. The guards obeyed instantly, turning around to face her. Their hands still held the man's arms, as he was suspended slightly in the air. He dropped his feet and stood, gazing at the Queen. Jaq's lips pulled apart in hideous glee. 

“Deidameia--” He began, lacing the word with hopefulness. 

With dignity and grace, she announced clearly and loudly, “You are the coward, not me.” The guards watched. The servants watched. Deidameia watched as his triumphant expression fell, and his eyes were hollowed out, a grey film passing over his skin. The Queen, then, uncontrollably, rushed forward and reached out and gripped his chin, drilling her fingers into his jaw.

“Do not ever say my name again,” Deidameia whispered, venom swallowed every letter, spitting with poison and void of compassion. She turned away, her golden dress swishing behind her. 

“Take him,” She permitted, without looking. The guards swept him down the hallway, again, his limp body carried efficiently by their proficient arms. Jaq no longer screamed or struggled. He was dragged to his fate, feeble and defeated. 

Briseis, who had witnessed the whole scene, jumped from her perch at the window. Outside, she soared on strong winds. She would take her discovery to Achilles, as to satisfy her promise. She only hoped his rage would not compromise herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally briseis baby!!! heck yeaaaah!
> 
> i hope y'all like my interpretation of her. 
> 
> as always, thanks for reading! leave kudos and comments!! <3


	16. In Which Achilles Builds the Wall

“She saved me,” Achilles whispered. His voice was an ugly thing, rearing its rotten and broken head. A pace away, in human form, Briseis flinched against it, averting her eyes. 

“She says she saved me,” He growled. 

Suddenly, the fairy threw his head back, golden curls flung with the motion. Wild and thunderous with agony, he screamed. His rage was embodied by streams of fire. Neon green and straight from the dragon’s throat. They shot up and pierced the sky with fervor. The clouds swirled in response; they were illuminated with a powerful light. Heat rose from his shoulders like smoke and fire pulsed from his stance. For miles, this beacon of pain could be seen. 

Then, Achilles inhaled, and all of the magic was swept up and back into him, leaving only traces of a burning scent and fireflies of green floating around him. He breathed easily, calming himself. Only then did he notice the state of the falcon. 

Briseis had cowered, pressing herself against the ground. Her face trembled as it touched the cold stone. Achilles pitied her but would grant her no grace. He wasn’t capable of it anymore.

“Come,” Achilles commanded, “We have much to do.”

✧ ✧ ✧

In the middle of the Moors, there stood a dais of grass. Surrounding it were stairs of smooth stone, patched over with lilies and daisies. In the past, this naturally-occurring stage had hosted public forums, weddings, speeches, and choir performances. It was a joyous place, enthused with delightful memories. But Achilles could recall none of them. 

Now, Achilles walked towards it, Briseis behind him. Attracted by Achilles’ presence, and the curious buzz of magic around him, pixies, sprites, and other creatures had followed him to the dais. A crowd began to form. They whispered fretfully to each other. More than once, Achilles caught the word “wings.” He scowled, and his feet pounded the stairs. The flowers wilted underneath his bare feet, but he did not notice. 

Achilles raised a hand.

A gnarly collection of weeds ignited at the center of the circle of grass. They sprouted thorns and leaves and pushed up from the ground. Swirling around each other, they grew and formed a black throne. Like a sunrise, the back of the chair flowed up and out, casting shadows and eclipsing the sky. 

Achilles sat, crossing his leg neatly over the other. 

Briseis stationed herself at his side, her hands formed fists, her eyes unreadable. Achilles tilted his chin up and observed the gathering in front of him. Familiar faces with wide eyes and gaping mouths. They were quiet and unmoving. 

“Kneel,” He announced easily, “before your King.”

Instantly, the creatures of the Moors obeyed. They fell, one by one, in beautiful and quick succession. Pixies, trolls, sprites, and nymphs. Caught in the crowd were Agamemnon and Menelaus in their wolf-forms. They bowed too, their wet noses streaked with grass and dirt. Other members of the Border Guard were scattered about, their black eyes were emotionless. Kneeling, all of them. For a moment, the subjects remained this way. Obedient and still. Waiting for orders. 

Pride blossomed in Achilles’ heart. 

“What is the meaning of this?” A voice interrupted roughly. Achilles’ eyes jumped to the source. 

Diomedes fluttered above the mass, his face twisted into a scowl. He was followed closely by Penelope and Odysseus. Each held a stern gaze with a practiced marble-like structure. But, from underneath their countenance, Achilles could taste their fear.

“Speak when spoken to,” Briseis snarled quickly. The Council’s expressions seemed to harden further if that was possible. Achilles silenced her with a wave. She nodded and stepped back. Then, the King stood, his black robes dancing around his feet and clinging to his shoulders. He smiled. Wicked and cruel. 

“So you arrive,” Achilles said, his tone accusatory, “Late for the battle, and early for the celebration.”

Unable to hide her shock, Penelope gasped, gawking at the space behind him. “Achilles, what has happened to you?” She gestured weakly to his lack of wings. 

Like a curtain call, the dull ache of his spine peaked at the acknowledgment, burning with pain. Achilles stifled a wince. 

Regaining his composure, “No, I don’t suppose you would know,” Achilles began slowly, “You were missed, Penelope. Odysseus. Diomedes,” He spoke each name with pauses before and after as if they were ingredients in a complicated recipe. “While we fought to save the Moors, as our people died by swords wielded by humans, you were missed.” He spat out the final word. 

Suddenly, the Council was blatantly afraid. They glanced between each other quickly and at the crowd of witnesses. They felt foolish floating above them all, like jesters on a platform. Hundreds of eyes watched them with suspicion and coldness. Eager to defend himself, Odysseus flew forward, opening his mouth to speak. But Achilles would not let him. 

“Imagine how many lives would be saved with your magic,” Achilles said loudly, for the benefit of every citizen, listening intently. “Had it not been for your cowardly hearts. Tell me, where were you when I called for arms?”

“You know our magic is not capable of evil,” Penelope interrupted quickly, her voice squeaky with anger and fear. 

“Is defending our land from their filth evil? Am I evil for saving the Moors, wise Council? Tell me!” He shouted. The echo of his anger was deflected by the trees. It pounded within their pointed ears. Still, the Council presented no answer. “Where was your loyalty? To me? To the Moors?” Achilles demanded. He was striding towards them now, and creatures of all sorts scampered to escape the monster’s path. The Council hovered shakily. 

“Our loyalty is strong. The fact that we allow your uneducated and faulty accusations to continue proves it,” Odysseus answered carefully, his eyes sharp. 

“You don’t know us,” Diomedes added, his voice deep and strained. 

Achilles smiled painfully, “Let me show you something.”

Creatures parted smoothly, as the King split them and marched across the Moorish forest. Briseis, the Council, and a crowd of witnesses crept close behind. He pushed several trees aside, with a brush of magic, so that the path was not interrupted. The audience was following attentively and eagerly, so obviously drawn by his glimmering fire. His power. 

Like a breath, the silence was held until the River Xanthus shattered it. The River flowed in front of them, heavy and fast with floods from the mountains. Jagged rocks sprung up from its depths. The fields, swaying with a breeze and darkened as the sky warned of a rainstorm, stood in front of the crowd. Achilles turned for the first time to look at his people. He gestured briefly to the expanse of grass.

“This,” He said quietly, “became the resting place for the ashes of our people. While you, Council, watched in silence.”

Penelope began, “Achilles, you’re suffering, I can help--” 

“Do not talk to me of suffering!” He screamed.

The entirety of the audience leaped away from his voice as if slapped by dozens of hands. Their eyes were wide with fear and wonder. Struck by their own awe.

“Go out there. And witness the pain you could have prevented,” Achilles said, “but instead choose to hide in your holes eating cake.” 

He glared at them forcefully. Slowly, as if drugged by hooks through the ocean, the Council drifted away, flying over the River and out into the field. They hovered above the empty grass. Penelope covered her mouth with her hands. Odysseus swallowed and surveyed the area. Diomedes trembled until his whole body shook violently. Here, they could feel the touch of Death. The very enemy of their abilities. It yanked at their souls with ravenous fingers, bearing its hatred and teeth for all creatures of Life. 

This was a graveyard of many. 

Penelope whispered, “What shall we do…?”

Odysseus answered softly, “I’ll think of something.” 

After a moment, he flew over to Diomedes and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. The other fairy flinched, his eyes void. 

“It’ll be alright,” Odysseus said to both of them. Penelope reached for Odysseus’ hand and squeezed it tightly. Each of them leaned towards one another as if to protect a flame from going out. They were very cold. 

“I promise,” Odysseus whispered.

“The Moors no longer has room for cowards. It has no space for them,” Achilles announced, pointing hotly to the bundle of fairies in the field, “War is upon us. And we will do anything we can to protect our land!” He hissed. His eyes were daggers. 

A lycan howled in agreement. Others took up the cry, whooping and shouting their praise. Briseis cheered wickedly. Moments passed as the echoes were launched into the sky. Eventually, the quiet rebuilt itself. Then, Achilles smiled, then rounded towards the field. 

“You are banished from the Moors,” Achilles yelled, his voice was strong and his lungs full. He strode across the grass, his steps determined and graceful. “Perhaps in time, I will let you return,” He said, his eyes stabbing into the smaller fairies’. “Perhaps not.” 

The Council stared at him in growing horror. 

“Go,” He responded lightly, gesturing meaningless to the expanse of land. “Now.”

“We will not forget this,” Odysseus warned, a devilish edge to his voice.

This was a death sentence. 

“No, you won’t,” Achilles answered in shallow agreement, tilting his chin. 

Penelope grasped the other’s hands and glared at her King. Achilles involuntarily shivered from the fury in her eyes. Then, with dignity, they fluttered away, across the field. The sunlight caught on their transparent wings. Achilles watched as they became distant sparks traveling over pumpkins. Then, he sighed and walked back to the Moors. Underneath the canopy, the audience’s faces were shadowy. 

“Everyone step back,” He commanded. Instantly, they obeyed, stumbling away from the River. Achilles returned his gaze to the human kingdom. He thought of Deidameia, as he always did now, and allowed sorrow to fill his heart until every string was pulled and every pore flooded.

Achilles inhaled and closed his eyes. He lifted his palms like he was offering to Thetis. Green flame swirled around his fingertips. They burned and glowed, bubbling into balls of magic. The River Xanthus cracked, water exploding and mist showering Achilles’ face. Thorns, thick and round like tree trunks, emerged from both banks. They curled up and across the trees, tangled and massive, like black snakes dripping with poison, freckled with spikes and coated with impenetrable skins. They formed a wall.

A wall between the Moors and everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyeeyeyyeye sorry for the long wait!!!
> 
> i hope y'all had a wonderful x-mas!! and happy new years and Hanukkah!!! and any other holidays!!
> 
> i love you guys and thank you so much for reading! leave kudos and comments if you want!


	17. In Which A Party is Thrown

It was a grand place, meant to host hundreds. The ceiling was painted a sweet blue. The oaken chandelier, with candles like orange dandelion puffs, was the lodestone of light. Its warmth spread throughout the ballroom, generous and happy. The marble pillars wore suits of pink and yellow watercolor, dressed by skilled and gentle hands. Curtains dripped down the sides of the windows, planted between the pillars. Their glass permitted the soft sunbeams of dusk passage. 

Buffet tables, each covered with a white cloth like children pretending to be ghosts, lined the far side. Underneath, their surfaces were scratched from years of parties and they stood proudly, undefeated, on their thick mahogany legs. Steaming foods of all sorts, fruit, cheese, bread, fish, chicken, beef, and drinks of all kinds, juices, beer, punches, decorated the surface. The smell, savory and sweet, filled the space. A wordless welcoming. 

A group of professional musicians crowded a corner with cymbals, flutes, lyres, and guitars. Bright and lively tunes arose from the source, promising merriment and good fortune to their listeners. Nobles, in their best dresses and suits, were standing purposefully and making small talk. Priests, in their formal wear, too, waved to one another, and noble children, with necklaces and lipstick, hurried into groups and gossiped. Servants drifted around, sweeping here or prepping additionally there, excitedly. The whole room was set and ready, in anticipation for the royal party.

Tonight, there would be a celebration open to the entire kingdom and kingdoms beyond. Deidameia had personally overseen the entire operation, and her taste was evident in splashes of color on marble and an abundance of lemon meringues. Had he been alive, Menoetius would have withered at the distasteful sight. Good thing he is not, Deidameia thought.

The Queen was perched upon her throne, seated at the front of the impending festivities. Makeup glazed her cheeks and eyes, and fine silk laced her throat. A wide green dress filled out space underneath her. Emeralds dangled from her earlobes, sparkling. A golden crown rested on her hair. To finish the image, a clean bunch of cloth rested in her embrace. Within the warm bundle was a baby, sleeping and innocent. His cheeks were rosy and lit, resembling his fiery hair, his most distinct feature.

“Pyrrhus,” She whispered to him, enjoying the slight smile the nickname brought to her son’s face. He gurgled gleefully, drool pooling at his lips. 

Tonight was Neoptolemus’ birthday party. A huge event, a shower, which included singing, dancing, the granting of gifts, reconnection with past friends and old allies, and required an investment of a great amount of gold for the food and decorations. This event was incredibly and nationally important, but, simultaneously, endlessly personal. 

The mother cooed at her baby shamelessly, wiping his chin, as the starting time approached. 

✧ ✧ ✧

“You know, it's not that noble daughters are generally attractive,” Automedon said profoundly, “It’s that noble daughters are generally bored. And that makes me seem infinitely more fun.”

“Don’t you find them boring?” Tharacus asked, failing to hide the contempt in his tone. 

“From my experience, they’re complete snobs. Stuck-ups. Rich and bored.”

“Okay?”

“A good deal of them will be here tonight.” 

“You do realize that half of those adjectives weren’t exactly flattering,” Tharacus pointed out sharply. 

They were discussing this a little less than adjacent to the throne space, as they surveyed the growing crowd. Tharacus was dressed in red. He was off-duty, and he wore his newly bought expensive suit poorly. Repeatedly, he had tugged uncomfortably at the collar and frowned. Automedon matched in a similar suit, which was blue and frilly. The costume emphasized his short stature and with neatly trimmed hair and boyish freckles, and the suit made him look like a storybook character, Tharacus had commented.

“I won’t be saying that to their faces, of course,” Automedon added quickly. And then, after a moment, “You’re probably a three on the fun-scale,” He said thoughtfully, touching his chin for effect. 

“Thanks? I still don’t understand why--”

“Look at my face.”

“I am…?”

“This face, this irreplaceable face, is going to capture the hearts of several very bored young women, Tharacus,” Automedon said proudly, pointing at himself. His eyes were sparkling now, “by midnight,” He swore, drawing an X above his heart. Tharacus stared, currently at a loss for words. 

Helen was not. 

“Hearing you say that plan out loud kills my brain and drains my will,” The princess remarked casually. 

She strode up to fill the space between the boys. Instantly, their gazes jerked to her elegant figure. Folds of cloth, like pieces of sky, formed a soft dome below her waist. The dress fluttered with the slightest movement and danced with the calmest breeze. Tighter clusters of cloud and blue covered her chest. Detailed stitching of lavenders curved up and swirled around her abdomen, like living flowery serpents. Her eyes were dark, and the sleek waterfall of her hair swam uninterrupted down her back, finishing in smooth curls. A tiara rested on her forehead. Helen was enchanting, as she always was. 

Automedon, who had grown comfortable in her presence, was hardly phased. “So I’ve been told, beautiful Helen.”

“You look…” Tharacus began, gaping embarrassingly at the princess, flushing and gawking. She met his eyes, a cautious warning. He quickly changed his mind and did not finish the statement, and asked instead, “Do you have a plan tonight, as well?”

“Yes,” She nodded promptly, grateful for the invitation to discuss it. “It has a name. Two, actually.”

Tharacus swallowed. “Who?”

“Hector and Paris,” She answered easily, her voice smooth like honey. “Sons of Priam. They were invited as per the tradition of most royal baby showers. More guests, more fortune for the newborn king or queen, you know. For too long, however, our alliance with them has been weak. I hope to correct this,” She explained, with a simple gesture. Her princess's voice rattled him. It was stern and political. Foreign, as if spoken through her, not from her.

Hector and Paris. 

Tharacus nodded mutely, shoving down the rising jealousy in his stomach.

After a beat, “But you’ll miss Automedon’s poor attempts to pick up ladies,” Tharacus teased. 

Helen smiled, whilst Automedon looked betrayed, his eyes wide with horror. “I’m fine with that,” She responded. 

“And my attempts to be the voice of reason,” He added. 

“Ah, now, that I’d like to see.” Helen’s eyes were bright. 

Before Tharacus could continue, the announcer, a robust man, called out someone’s name, a minor prince or whoever, from his position at the top of a winding staircase. It was really two joint marble staircases, with yellow railing and velvet carpet riding the steps. They stretched out like arms unfolding unto the crust of the dancefloor, inviting and true. The pale stranger and his paler wife entered the ballroom, and began their descent into the party, already smiling and laughing. 

“But--” Helen responded dutifully, “I am the princess.” 

Tharacus nodded again, firmly, as she drifted away. “Good luck tonight, Your Highness,” He answered with a jerky bow that was half-joking and half-instinctual. He found himself parallel to the floor and blushed. 

“I could have sworn we were past you calling me that,” Helen said, feigning exasperation. Slightly flustered, and regaining his original stance, Tharacus only shrugged, before she turned on her heel and marched determinedly onto the battlefield of social cues and vanity. He silently cursed Hector and Paris, wherever and whoever they may be.

“You are. So. Screwed,” Automedon muttered, watching Helen shed her fair skin and become the perfect princess, as she was amazingly capable of doing. Tharacus stared, mesmerized. His entire being was absorbed in watching this beautiful blue creature, who couldn’t help but fly just out of his reach. 

Finally, “Sorry,” Tharacus said, shaking himself, “What did you say?” 

“We’re finding you a girl tonight.”

“Auto…”

“As I’ve said, we have been given the opportunity of a lifetime,” Automedon insisted, practically whining. He grabbed Tharacus’ shoulder, and planted himself between his friend and Helen, hoping to shatter the spell. Dismember, push against maybe, the power she held over him. 

“While the princess is away the mice will catch their prey,” The stable boy said with a playful shove. 

Tharacus’ brow furrowed, and Automedon knew he had won something. Tharacus seemed to see him now. “That’s not how the saying goes, and you make it sound much dirtier--”

“I know what I sound like, Tharacus.”

A sweeter voice chimed in. “I’m surprised by that.” 

“Patroclus!” Automedon cheered and turned to their friend. Tharacus followed. “Aren’t you stunning?” He chirped. And he was. 

Patroclus’s dark skin was framed by a shimmering overcoat, deep purple like the innermost petal of a violet. Silver stitching, created by a careful hand and a sharp vision, ran across and down his collar, forming vines and swirls that sprouted from his hips. A white cravat burst from his throat and fluttered against his chest. A crystal adornment was clipped on top of spawning silk. Neatly smoothed pants, which were a fine black, cupped his thin legs. Freshly trimmed, his hair was slicked back, and his curls were fighting against the oily chains, bouncing up behind his ears. His eyes were alive, with boyish pride and princely enjoyment. 

Patroclus smiled awkwardly, and per Auto’s request, he indulged them and performed a perfect spin. His coattails launched and relaunched with the movement. Automedon clapped politely, and Tharacus simply grinned. 

“Isn’t he charming?” Automedon asked Tharacus, putting on his royalty voice, rich with mockery. “Your Highness,” He drawled and bowed so deeply his knees nearly knocked his face, rotating his hand as he dipped. 

Rolling his eyes, “You’re embarrassing yourself,” Tharacus insisted, and changed the subject. “Still nervous, Patroclus?”

Patroclus slowed and tucked a strand behind his ear. “A tad, yes, thank you for asking.”

Automedon lifted, his cheeks red from an overdose of blood. “We got your back, brother,” He said, resuming his normal voice, and punching Pat in the shoulder, who flinched, “after we introduce ourselves to all the pretty women of course.”

“Automedon thinks himself a man now,” Tharacus offered Patroclus’s confused expression. 

“I’m man enough for everyone in this room.”

“Do you even have stubble--? Wait, yes,” Tharacus said, grabbing Automedon’s chin to inspect it. He rubbed his thumb against the bone. Automedon opened his mouth and snapped his teeth at the touch. “No, that’s just dirt,” He announced, removing the spot easily. 

“Who cares!” Automedon said, shoving his hand away, profusely unphased. “Patroclus, will you join us on our quest for love?” He asked grandly. 

After thinking for a moment, he was actually pondering the ridiculous question, Patroclus answered, “I already have all the love I need.”

“Aw, what a charmer. Didn’t I say that earlier? What a charmer,” Automedon said, fluttering his eyes at Pat, and forcing a fake laugh. Patroclus frowned, disturbed by his sardonic humor, and unable to understand why the other was making fun of his honesty.

The stable boy’s expression suddenly was completely serious. “It wasn’t a request. You’re coming with us. You’ve been claimed!” He said, and his fist shot into the air. 

Deidameia appeared behind them, dodging the attack swiftly. Offense plain on her features. Automedon lurched away, dropping his eyes from her fierce gaze. Patroclus whipped around to face her. “Mother,” He greeted. 

“Claimed, I hear?” She pressed gently, raising an eyebrow at Automedon. 

He was fully flushed now and stuttering. “No, ma’am. I mean yes, Your Highness, we were. I said--We were--”

Tharacus grabbed Automedon’s arm and pulled him away. “We will be leaving, now, Your Highness.” Immediately, they began to stumble into the masses. 

The Queen nodded. “Thank you.” Once they were out of earshot, she smiled at Patroclus and swept him into a tight and informal hug. 

“How is my son?” She asked, in a motherly whisper. 

“Probably enjoying all the attention,” Patroclus answered, thinking of baby Pyrrhus, who was being cooed at from his position near the throne. The teeny tiny prince was nestled in between blankets of the softest expense within a cradle, rocking rhythmically. Currently, Deidameia’s personal women overlooked the babe, enchanting him with kisses and games of peek-a-boo. Patroclus pressed against his mother’s chest. 

Deidameia pushed him back and looked at his face. “Do you miss being the favorite?”

“I was never,” Patroclus pouted. 

“Yes--”

“Helen,” He countered swiftly. 

“You were the baby,” Deidameia said, reaching up to squeeze Patroclus’ cheeks, “my baby boy. Now, you’re my grown-up little prince,” She added sweetly, dropping her hands.

“You won’t be jealous of Pyrrhus, will you?” She assumed a certain seriousness now, conveying the deep importance with which she addressed the relationship she wanted between the siblings. 

“No, Mom, I’m not jealous. I was teasing,” Patroclus assured her firmly. 

“You love him, truly?” Deidameia pressed, her eyes cautiously unbelieving. Patroclus nodded. 

“I love my brother,” He answered, and paused before adding with a smile, “Even if he can't say it back.” Pyrrhus had not uttered his first word yet, and Deidameia understood this comment of his, too, was playful, void of the malice she had experienced with her siblings. And she was glad. 

“He does talk, you just have to train your ears to listen,” Deidameia said ambiguously, touching her fingers to her ears. Mother’s intuition, to speak the baby’s unspoken language. 

“I will try, then,” Patroclus responded, with a similar level of mystery, “But for now, all I understand is his smile. He has an adorable smile.”

“All babies have an adorable smile.”

“His is a naughty one.”

“Maybe,” Deidameia answered, and then sweetly, “Relax, Patroclus, and have fun tonight. Enjoy yourself for once.”

For once. 

Since the death of his father and the loss of his trusted falcon, enjoyment had operated slightly outside of him. It was wrong, he knew, to be happy when there was so much to be sad about. At least, he felt it was wrong. Yet, it had been nearly ten months since the kingdom’s tragedy. Maybe tonight would mark a new beginning. 

“Is that my only duty?” Patroclus asked because he was genuinely wondering. Helen seemed to have some political plan for the evening, whilst Patroclus only hoped to steal a few extra lemon meringues. And, of course, spend time with his friends and sister. It was a child’s wish, but it was his nonetheless. 

Duties fell to everyone else, it seemed. Doubtless, Patroclus was one of the free, bound only by his own emotions and morals. 

His mother pondered for a brief second, then, “Helen has duties. But those are ones she gives herself,” Deidameia explained, “Your duties, at least for tonight, are yours. You can decide.” 

“Alright,” He whispered, willing it to be true, though he didn’t quite understand her meaning. 

The Queen granted him an easy nod, then placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Go to your friends,” Deidameia commanded, “Remember to come up when we receive Neoptolemus’ gifts.”

“Yes, I will.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Paris was not thrilled about the foreign prince’s party. From his kingdom, it had been a dreary journey. Seafaring ships did not suit his stomach and the lingering taste of vomit soured his mood. The carriage ride stretching over miles of farmland, grass after grass after grass, was worsened by Hector’s lecturing. 

“Do not talk to anyone. Let me,” He had said sternly, “I will present the gift and you will smile and bow. Do. Nothing. Else. Okay?”

“You can count on me,” Paris had responded with a weak grin.

Earlier today, they had stopped at a hotel, full of clean rooms and located within the heart of the kingdom, and dressed. Paris felt constrained with the pure white coat and cravat. The curved edges of his shoulders were sharped and his lean muscles covered with buttons. His sun-kissed and freckled skin was darkened by the silk’s presence. His naturally wavy hair was pinned back by a golden band, trapped. Cream-colored designs swam around his hips in flowing whirlpools. The servants that accompanied the princes even had Paris’ face powdered, though he had protested. When he glanced at a mirror, he saw a stranger. 

A year ago, he was still a boy only. Blissfully ignorant of life beyond cows and endless sky and work with hands. Now, he navigated the twisting and complex system of politics and prince hood. Slowly being molded into an obedient and perfect prince. Pure as snow. 

Diving into the molten lava of his new life was weird at best and infuriating at worst. He often drank at lowlife bars and made love to pretty strangers in an attempt to undo his depression. Nothing created the Shift he wanted. The Shift from himself, wild and unyielding, into an icon of Trojan prosperity. Thankfully, there was Hector. His brother, though it was still strange to call him that. His brother. 

Hector who volunteered before Paris could open his mouth. Hector who was a better fighter and earned countless laurels from many competitions. Hector who shone with dignity and honor. Hector, the prize of Troy, and his shadow, Paris. 

Paris told himself he did not mind. 

It was no surprise that Hector would present the gift. And Paris cared not for the role. The gift was a vase, which could be filled with fifty gallons and then some, made of smoothly crafted clay. Silver was spun across its surface in repetitive and alluring spirals, brilliant in sunlight. An impractical but grand gift, suited for the world of the courts. It would be carried in behind them and placed before the newborn’s crib, topping a huge pile of gifts. 

The air was chilled as they entered the ballroom. Next to them, an announcer called their names. Paris glanced cautiously at Hector for direction. Hector, who was dressed in a black suit similar to his own, did not return the gaze. Hector stared straight ahead, frozen in time until the voice finished. 

“Ready?” Hector whispered, barely moving his mouth. 

“Not at all,” Paris mumbled back, smiling just a little. 

“Let’s go,” Hector said, ignoring the comment. They turned and remained in practiced formation as they descended the left staircase. Hector walked with grace and purpose, his dark eyes pinned to the distance as if a council of gods was judging him. Paris trailed slightly behind, his focus attracted by every possible object. He gawked at the room, colorful and happy, unable to conceal his suprise and shock because of royal luxuries. Women and men danced to cheerful tunes, their dresses spinning rainbows on top of ancient marble. 

At the bottom of the steps, a figure drew his eye. She was dark-haired, and fair-skinned, and clothed with a radiant blue gown. Her oval face held no emotion, but passion flickered behind the stone. Her cheekbones were identical arches and her lips were a cherry blossom pink. The black dials, her eyes, were cold and dark. Infinity was held within them. Her attention was directed at nothing in particular as if she deigned existence itself. As if she was a goddess on Earth among mortals. Among hundreds of unworthy eyes. Unworthy to look upon her beautiful face. 

Then, she was looking at him. 

A thousand times, a thousand times over, in a thousand lives, Paris swore that she is and would be the prettiest thing he ever saw. 

Paris whispered, “Holy shit…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!!
> 
> firstly, thank you for reading! ily and hope ur having a wonderful day. sorry about the staggered uploads, school is starting up again and imma be really busy, so this fic will be slow :C
> 
> leave kudos and comments if you want!!


	18. In Which Patroclus is Cursed

Helen spun around. And galaxies echoed the dance. Her dress fluttered, and Paris sensed she had moved beyond him once more. Again, she was beyond Earth. A spirit rising above the waters, clothed in majesty and stars, dark hair leaping into the wind. Her eyes were closed. She was tethered solely by his hands, firm and large. One on her waist, the other on her shoulder. 

She was in euphoria. 

Or perhaps, that was only him, allowing himself to be swallowed up by and lost within her glory. 

Paris wasn’t sure he was breathing. Maybe he had forgotten how. 

The music played distantly, its noise present as if Paris was underwater. His lungs filled with only Helen’s warmth, the heat showering her slender body and pooling on to him. A shared tension. A shared heat, only to be disrupted by the coldness in her gaze. They swayed with the chemistry he knew they both felt, the fluctuation of the temperature, their feet guided by nothing save for the hum of happiness. 

The dance finished, and Paris felt so ancient yet so ignited by the spark of love in his chest. He was going to marry this woman. 

The prince of Troy held her hip and neck. And her eyes held everything. 

“You’re a great dancer,” He complimented swiftly in a low voice meant only for her.

“You can improve,” She responded with an eyebrow raised. Paris laughed. 

“That is true,” He admitted, tilting his head. His hair ran and dripped onto his shoulder. “What about another dance, hm? Tell me if I did better after this one.” This was the third time he had requested this, the third time he asked her to tell, and he felt he would give anything to keep asking. 

Her eyes were stone, as he expected them to be, but her lips curved up in an inviting, almost teasing, smile. He wanted to drink it. “If you want to be judged, there are other girls.”

Instantly, “No, there aren’t,” Paris countered, shocked by the sincerity in his tone.

Her eyebrows lifted at this, and Paris felt victorious. Then, her shielded expression returned and she frowned. “You honor something you do not know.” He opened his mouth, but she cut him off, “And, anyway, I promised your brother--”

“You would not like him. He’s stiff, and you deserve a more fluid partner,” Paris protested, sounding vaguely pathetic. 

She sharply responded, “I know what I deserve.” Then, she pulled away, and Paris dropped his hands, disappointed as if the tide went out. Another song began to rise from the corner, crawling across the floor. The princess acknowledged this with a brief glance and began her escape. Away from Paris. 

Paris hurriedly pointed out, “I never caught your name,” in an attempt to stop her, reaching briefly for her wrist before thinking better of it. 

The blue angel met his eyes over her shoulder. Dark and unrelenting. “You know who I am.”

Paris nearly pouted. “But--but you never gave your name.”

She considered him. Not so subtly her eyes dragged up and down his body. Inhaling, she carefully registered what she saw. And, at that moment, Paris swore he would remove his own brain only to receive a glimpse of hers in return. 

“Helen,” She answered her soft lips slow and smooth around the vowels. 

“Paris,” He said back. The cheerful song, with a jazzy melody and an attention-demanding harmony, had begun to pound, but the walls of their private kingdom held. Remaining impenetrable despite the force. Every other face blurred and every other voice was quiet save for theirs. 

Helen did not smile, but amusement flickered in her gaze. “I know.”

He jerked up his chin. “So do I.”

After a very still moment, she said, “I am going to accept my brother’s gifts now.” 

“Then, I will find you after, Helen,” Paris promised, happy at the opportunity to speak her name and even happier at the chance to prove to her his boldness. His commitment to her and only her from now on. The braveheart beating within his cowardly body. 

With greediness creeping into her eyes, she nodded. “And I’ll wait for you, Paris son of Priam.”

And she was sure she would. 

✧ ✧ ✧

Watching Paris drift sadly into the mass, “Who was that?” Patroclus asked as Helen took her throne next to him. They had identical seats, with stuffed red cushions and firm backboards of mahogany, both small and meant for youths. They seemed smaller still when adjacent to the Queen’s bulky throne, as they were now, which was crafted generations ago and threaded with gold. 

“Someone,” Helen answered nonchalantly, adjusting her skirts underneath her. 

Patroclus frowned. “You’re being secretive.”

Helen smiled, staring out into the whirlpool of rotating nobles and royalty, the clothing was a brilliant blur. “I always have been, it simply annoys you more now.”

Patroclus wrinkled his nose. “I am not annoyed.”

“You are,” Helen accused casually. For a moment, it seemed Patroclus was going to argue and Helen prepared herself. But, then, a trumpet sounded and a minor noble approached the stage where they sat. 

Patroclus shushed his twin, “They’re bringing the first gift,” He said, boyish excitement spiking in his tone. 

✧ ✧ ✧

For the following hour, various gifts were presented before a watchful Pyrrhus. The infant prince rested with wide eyes on top of his cloud of silk. The fortune of masterpieces, gold, books, robes, jewelry, and even a silver pony, waiting outside, was an honorable welcome to life for Pyrrhus. To him, the expense seemed all the same. The court’s communication of golden emblems and brushed horses were nothing more than a light show for his young eyes, but a balance and tipping of power for everyone else. With each presentation, the Queen offered her thanks and the princess and prince a grateful smile. 

Eventually, the final gift of the evening was placed amongst the others. It was a detailed painting of a realistic centaur shooting down a rabbit with her bow. From her post, the creature’s sharp eyes cut across and off the paper, to a distant place. The readiness to kill within them. 

Queen Deidameia stood. Her gaze was prideful and alive, but the crinkles around her eyes conveyed a deep sense of satisfaction. As if the finish line was in sight. Perhaps she was imagining Pyrrhus’s rule. Or simply the meal prepared for the evening. 

She opened her mouth, but a fierce wind interrupted her speech. It flooded the room, bringing with it a chill. The prickling frost swam down each guests’ spine. And the chandelier swung with the force. The candles were swept out in an instant. The entrance doors slammed open. Hundreds of eyes turned, but there was no apparent intruder. 

Then, a shadow crossed above the staircase, crawling up the marble, slowly but surely. From the dark crest, two horns emerged. Witnesses watched, their lungs frozen with shock as ice spread into their blood, invading their senses and rendering reaction impossible.

Something within Deidameia fell off the shelf and broke. 

And there he was. 

Achilles stood at the top of the staircase. His golden hair shone silver in the pale light. His horns curved up and pointed accusatory towards the sky. They shimmered as bones; covered in a ridged texture, like thin and individual knives marched up both. Emeralds burned on his face, his eyes searched the room. Black robes swirled around his ankles and wrists, and a falcon perched on his shoulder. He began his descent, shadows sweeping behind him.

His appearance, still youthful and bright, ordinarily would strike fear into the heart of no one. But Achilles had grown beyond his boyish curls. Rather, it was his presence, which haunted and pursued and swallowed and consumed and terrified. He carried the weight of sorrow with him, and the freedom of having absolutely nothing to lose. And the audience felt his impenetrability and power. 

They recognized their King’s murderer. 

“Well, well, well,” Achilles drawled rhythmically, his deepened voice rattled throughout the room. Guests scampered to avoid his path, which he paved easily down the middle of the dance. He strode with purpose and grace towards the front, his chin high. 

“What a wonderful party, Queen Deidameia,” He said. Deidameia didn’t answer. She did not seem to hear him, as if he had transcended and was only revealed to certain souls. Like an apparition. Or a demonic angel. 

This isn't real, she thought. 

“I see nobility, royalty,” --he waved his hand around briefly-- “and even common folk. My invitation must have been lost on its journey, yes?” 

His approach continued, inevitable and melancholy, and he came to the steps before the thrones. Pyrrhus at his left and the mountain of riches at his right. Three expressions faced him. One like stone, one terrified, and the last lit with a growing fire because of Achilles’ shameless audacity. 

Helen stood, fists at her sides. Veins popped across the knuckles. 

“You’re not welcome here, beast!” She screamed, but even her, for all her gifts, even now her voice faltered and snapped. Weak in comparison to the fairy. 

Achilles laughed dryly. It echoed and cracked like leaves crunching underneath the boot. Void of merriment. 

“Name-calling! How mature,” He answered, puckering his lips in a mocking pout. Then, he rolled his gaze to the side, his eyes crawling over the horrified guests. In a neat consecutive line, one by one, they cowered, whimpering and flinching back. Achilles smiled, and said good-naturedly, “Oh, this is an awkward situation.” He tapped a finger to his chin.

“But you’re not offended?” Patroclus was standing now, too. His doe-eyes were pretty with fear. His voice quaked, too, like his sister's. 

Achilles stared, and then, “Why, no, Patroclus.” Several hushed voices questioned each other, how does he know the prince’s name? Had the circumstances been normal, gossiping would’ve commenced. But these were not. “And to show, I bear no offense, let me grant too the prince a gift.” The creature rounded on the crib, a maddening smile twisting his lips. He was thinking of his mother’s advice. Gnawing on it.

Queen Deidameia howled, “No! We don’t want your gift!” Her entire body trembled with anxiety and her chest heaved with dread. She fell to her knees, unable to recover from the shock her system endured. Helen rushed to her side.

Achilles loomed over the baby. Pyrrhus gazed back, emotionless and unafraid. He did not--could not--comprehend the danger he was in. The danger closing the throats of every witness. 

Achilles concisely glanced at the pile of gifts. A polished spinning wheel rested near the front. A pauper's gift. One which brought shame to the family of both receiver and giver. A symbol that represented the beginning of a downfall of a kingdom. The first sign. Disrespect and humiliation.

Achilles threw up his arms, his fingers reaching for the Moon. Beams of green light penetrated his robe and whirled around his arms. Like snakes, the fire grew venomous teeth, pulsing through the room. Hundreds fell to the ground, shielding their eyes and faces from the heat.

“Listen well all you people!” Achilles thundered. Fury uncovered and hatred unguarded. His palms churned with boiling fey magic. “Before the sun sets on his twentieth birthday, the prince will prick his finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and fall into a sleep like death.” The word death rang out like a church bell tolling. The debt all men pay. A shudder passed through the audience as the marble itself seemed to tremble. Everyone's meals turned sour in their stomachs. “A sleep from which he will never awaken!” The growing storm screamed, crisp with the green blaze, transforming air into waves of pain. At his feet, the floor melted into molten lava. Each breath was agony as the fire and smoke rose.

Queen Deidameia wept and wailed. “Achilles, please don’t do this!”

Achilles paused. For a second, the earthquake stopped. And fire halted. “I like you begging,” He said strangely as if the satisfaction her tears brought was an unexpected liberation. “Do it again,” He commanded, glaring at her. 

Placing her lovely head to the carpet, she cried out from the depths of her stomach, “I beg you.” The echo of her sorrow and desperation would be written on these walls for centuries. It was an inhuman sound straight from Hell. 

Achilles blinked carefully. 

Unable to wait any longer, Patroclus urgently ran to Pyrrhus’s crib. He positioned himself between Achilles and his newborn brother. His teeth grit against the blaze, but his feet did not fail. He looked straight into the beast’s eyes. “He’s just a baby! A helpless baby, you can’t--”

“I can do anything I want!” Achilles bellowed. It was a horrible crescendo like ice shattering. The melody filled and rattled Patroclus’s bones, threatening to cause them to crumble. Achilles swept the prince up, in a heated blurred hand of magic. His fingers reaching for the prince, but untouching. Fire swam around his head, a laurel crowning a champion. His feet dangled and he choked, half-blinded, and drowning in the blood of the fey. Anointed by searing pain. Someone screamed. 

With great effort, “Please,” Patroclus whispered hoarsely. “Take me instead. Not him.”

The tears flooding Patroclus’ eyes pierced Achilles’ coldness. 

Within the moment, Achilles sobered. He dropped Patroclus onto the floor, next to his infant brother. The prince fell in a corpse-like position, his skin morphing into a scorching red. Charred flesh blubbed like a collar around his neck. Achilles stared, refusing to let his empathy pass to this human. He lifted his eyes and registered the increased pain in Deidameia. She stared in horror. Even Helen’s coldness was disarmed and replaced with apocalyptic dismay. Vengeance was his purpose. Agony was his goal. And he had discovered the source of it. 

“All right,” He whispered slowly.

Deidameia screamed. “Achilles!”

Clutching her mother desperately, Helen echoed. “Patroclus!” 

Achilles shifted his curse, and delicately placed it unto Patroclus. A voice came from him. Achilles wasn’t sure if the voice was his. “For his willingness and bravery, our prince, our volunteer, can be awoken from his curse of Death’s sleep. But only by,” He looked to Queen Deidameia, who beamed so foolishly with hope now her freckles seemed to shine. Achilles grimaced an utterance of, “true love’s kiss,” ransacking the final word for all the malice it was worth. 

Recollection ignited immediately within the Queen's eyes. And then hate. Pure hate.

Achilles turned away. 

He shouted into the crowd, “This curse will last until the end of time. No power on Earth can change it!” Magical residue shot away from him in streams of green. A sphere of fire expanded quickly and popped. Like music it transformed and moved out and then dissipated with a flourish. 

Without looking back, Achilles abandoned the scene of his desolation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dudes finally its happening!
> 
> i hope yall enjoyed and as always, leave kudos and comments if you want!!! its so good to read them!


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